












































» ■ 




! 



































, 





























- 














































































































































































































































































































* 



% 







* 





WvSS; 


ifi/ III 


hi r 


I II 111 l| | ■ ' u . 1 1 1 tf ( | Ll\(ri] 
\ r\u\> \ ' T. V A 'AnitklJ 


wiiJWwwi 



swum 

\ 

fu i • 

Sfc i 



O 




/ 





























UdJzi' 








P 






* 





©SIfSg 3^ 

'TV73 

® B 





fl©©®o 


USOlfg® ©V 050 Q©@ [L@©[LQS b 



»,) 


IP IS n Is JS. © IB El IP HI I A 8 

S§a &. ©ASS'S’ <& An 5SASS 




PZjo 
• r l 

.V.ni 

Cfr'W ^ 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, 

BY E. L. CAREY AND A. HART, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District 
of Pennsylvania. 

a(i 


< c 
r « 

< < i 


HASWELL, BARRINGTON, AND HASWELL, 
PRINTERS. 




Considerations arising from the general 
depression of business, induced the Propri- 
etors of the Violet to defer the publication 
of a second volume till the year 1839. Now 
that the prospect is brightening, a continu- 
ation of this little work is offered to the 
juvenile part of our community, with the 
hope that, as in merit it has lost nothing 
by delay, in success it will not fall behind 
its predecessor. 


Philadelphia, 1838. 





© ® KI C J tS K) c u 5 © 


PAGE 

The Blossom Spirit. By Miss C. E. Gooch. 17 

The Cottager. By Mrs. L. S. Sigourney. - • - • 23 

The Holiday. By Mrs. S. J. Hale. 28 

Snow-Balling. By Miss Leslie. 36 

The Rose Bud in Autumn. By Miss H. F. Gould. - - 54 

The Bad Seamstress. By Mrs. C. Gilman. 56 

The Birth-day Ball. By C. H. W. - - - - 59 

Innocence. By W. B. Tappan. 70 

Drops of Water and Prisms. By Mrs. M. Griffith. • - 72 

Tinytella. By Mrs. C. Gilman. 93 

Hope and Memory. Anonymous. 97 

The White Moth. By Miss H. F. Gould. - - - 100 

The Old Soldier’s Story. By Mrs. Hale. .... 103 

Emma Lee. By Miss Mary E. Lee. - - - - - 107 

An Answer from the Busy Bee. By Mrs. M. Griffith. - 117 

The Weight of Influence. By Charles West Thomson. - 123 

The Widow of Serepta (from the French). By Miss Leslie. 146 

Lines by a Blind Girl. Anonymous 160 

The Faithful Friend. By W. B. Tappan. ... 162 

The New-Year’s Gift. By Miss Leslie. .... 165 

The Grave of Franklin. By C. H. W. • • - - 201 

Lauretta’s Fawn. By Miss Leslie 203 

The Indian Girl. By J. T. 208 




CL n © t u 3 gift EBB ILL DSKl BABIN 7© 


ENGRAVED TITLE. 

FRONTISPIECE— PLAYING AT SOLDIERS, 
R. Farrier, — J. Pease. 


SNOW BALLING, p. 36 

W. Kidd, — Lawson. 

INNOCENCE, p.70 

Miss Fanny Corbeaux, — Ellis. 

AN OLD SOLDIER’S STORY, - p. 103 

Farrier, — O. A. Lawson. 

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND, - - - p. 162 

Baume, — Ed. Eldridge. 

LAURETTA’S FAWN, p. 203 


E. Landseer, — C. H. Cushman. 









































/*• 




























































































*• 

/ 













































K1 g gj [L ® © © ® Kftl ©PQBD'u’a 

BY MISS C. E. GOOCH. 

’Twas in a lovely southern isle 
That basks in summer’s changeless smile, 
And knows not what it is to fear 
The chilling blasts of winter drear ; 

Within this isle there was a dell 
Where the rejoicing sunbeams fell, 

Peering their way through branching trees, 
And gay leaves quiv’ring in the breeze. 

Deep in this dell so fair and lone, 

To mortal foot untrod, unknown, 

Behold the Blossom Spirit’s throne. 


2 


18 


THE VIOLET. 


And there — such was their king’s decree — 
Each sprite attended his levee. 

Like mortal kings, their plaints he heard, 
And varying gifts on each conferred; 

He gave the Tulip’s splendid streak; 

Made Mignionnette sweet-scented, meek; 

And to the Thistle — (well he knew 

That none would plant, if none e’er grew!) — 

He gave the power to ride the wind, 

And in each nook a refuge find. 

Yet Envy’s sharp, malignant face, 

Even in the flow’rets court found place, 

Eager from plant to plant she went, 

Fanning each spark of discontent: 

“ Now see,” she cried, “ your partial prince 
Such fondness for some flowers evince! 

The Pink, the Hyacinth, the Rose — 

Rich as their scent their beauty glows!” 

Amid the discontented throng 
Was one, to whom pertains our song; 


THE BLOSSOM SPIRIT. 


19 


It was a Violet, small and blue, 

That near a gorgeous garden grew. 

Beneath a hawthorn hedge it smil’d, 

Nor knew its bliss in being wild ; 

But envying the showy flowers 
That grew within the garden bowers, 
Repining at their colours gay — 

She fain would be as fine as they! 

And thus, with envious low’ring brow, 

The Spirit sought the levee now. 

The astonish’d monarch, wont to see 
Her face, aye dress’d in modest glee, 

Enquired the cause; no longer mute, 

With eager tongue she press’d her suit 

Her sovereign frown’d — “A luckless hour 
It is for thee, thou silly flower, 

When modest wortli thou castest by 
To shine in robes of Tyrian dye ! 

Yet have thy wish, wait till the spring! 

And thou shalt be an alter’d thing!” 

The eager flowret scarce could stay 
Till fanned by genial winds of May; 


20 


THE VIOLET. 


With what delight did she behold 
Her particolour’d leaves unfold! 

No longer tinged with modest blue — 

Bright yellow three — rich purple two ! 
Shrinking no more from public view, 

Her broad green leaves, shy peeping through; 
She flaunted in the sun’s broad blaze, 

And sought each idle passer’s gaze. 

But deep vexations soon possess’d 
The disappointed Violet’s breast; 

The Humming Bird and Butterfly 
Now unregarded passed her by ; 

The zephyr sought her bower no more, 

And the sweet south wind passed her o’er. 
The angry beauty could not guess 
Why slighted was her loveliness; 

Until a Bee, her former guest, 

Alighted, on another’s breast ! 

Stung with resentment, she required, 

“ Why were her charms no more admired 1” 
The Bee replied, in careless tone, 

That “Now she pleased the eye alone!” 


THE BLOSSOM SPIRIT. 


21 


Dismayed the spirit sought her chief, 

And prayed for pity and relief; 

But spirits, though above our span, 

Are bound by laws, as well as man. 

Calmly the King of Flowers replied, 

“ Violet ! thy boon must be denied ; 

The richest fragrance once was thine, 

Which thou exchanged for gaudy shine ; 

I cannot take what I have given — 

To give thee both belongs to Heaven! 

One boon to sooth thy scentless lot 
I give — the name Forget-me-not 
Be thine, — and henceforth thou shalt be 
The symbol dear to memory. 

She who is parting from a friend 
Shall o’er the garden borders bend, 

Where rich and thick thy blossoms glow, 

A fitting token to bestow.” 

The monarch ceased, and waved his wand, 
Nature obeyed the kind command. 

“Look on this flower,” fond lovers say, 

“And think of me!” even to this day. 


22 


THE VIOLET. 


And thus Pensee ,* the Norman name 
From which our English Pansy came. 
Pansy, immortalized the most, 

A place in Shakspeare’s page can boast; 
But those who think that dress has power 
O’er female hearts, in hall or bower, 

“ Ladies-delight” have called the flower. 
Fair girl ! scan thou my legend well, 

And if thou can’st its moral tell — 

Oh! let it be thy guardian spell. 


* Thoughts. 


Washington , D. C. 


THE COTTAGER. 


23 


rag 


BY MRS. L. S. SIGOURNEY. 


There was a labouring man, who built a cot- 
tage for himself and his wife. A dark grey rock 
overhung it, and helped to keep it from the 
winds. 

When his cottage was finished, he thought 
he would paint it grey, like the rock. And so 
exactly did he get the same shade of colour, that 
it looked almost as if the little dwelling sprang 
from the bosom of the rock that sheltered it. 

After a while, the cottager became able to 
purchase a cow. In the summer, she picked up 
most of her own living very well. But in the 


24 


THE ViOLET. 


winter, she needed to be fed and kept from the 
cold. 

So, he built a barn for her. It was so small, 
that it looked more like a shed than a barn. 
But it was quite warm and comfortable. 

When it was done, a neighbour came in, and 
said, “ what colour will you paint your barn V’ 

“I had not thought about that,” said the cot- 
tager. 

“Then I advise you, by all means, to paint it 
black; and here is a pot of black paint, which I 
have brought on purpose to give you.” 

Soon, another neighbour, coming in, praised 
his neat shed, and expressed a wish to help him 
a little about his building. “White, is by far 
the most genteel colour,” he added, “ and here is 
a pot of white paint, of which I make you a 
present.” ^ 

While he was in doubt, which of the gifts to 
use, the eldest and wisest man in the village 
came to visit him. His hair was entirely white, 
and every body loved him, for he was good, as 
well as wise. 

When the cottager had told him the story of 


THE COTTAGER. 


25 


the pots of paint, the old man said, “he who 
gave you the black paint, is one who dislikes 
you, and wishes you to do a foolish thing. He 
who gave you the white paint, is a partial friend, 
and desires you to make more show than is wise. 

“Neither of their opinions should you follow. 
If the shed is either black or white, it will dis- 
agree with the colour of your house. Moreover, 
the black paint will draw the sun, and cause the 
edges of your boards to curl and split ; — and the 
white will look well but for a little while, and 
then become soiled, — and need painting anew.” 

“Now, take my advice, and mix the black and 
white together.” So the cottager poured one pot 
into the other, and mixed them up with his 
brushes, — and it made the very grey colour, 
which he liked, and had used before upon his 
house. 

He had in one corner of his small piece of 
ground, a hop-vine. He carefully gathered the 
ripened hops, and his wife made beer of them, 
which refreshed him, when he was warm and 
weary. 

It had always twined around two poles which 


26 


THE VIOLET. 


he had fastened in the earth, to give it support, 
But the cottager was fond of building, — and he 
made a little arbour for it to run upon, and clus- 
ter about. 

He painted the arbour grey. So the rock and 
the cottage, and the shed and the arbour, were 
all of the same grey colour. And every thing 
around looked neat and comfortable, though it was 
small and poor. 

When the cottager and his wife grew old, they 
were sitting together, in their arbour, at the sun- 
set of a summer’s day. 

A stranger who seemed to be looking at the 
country, stopped and inquired, how every thing 
around that small habitation happened to be the 
same shade of grey. 

“It is very well it is so, said the cottager, — 
for my wife and 1, you see, are grey also. And 
we have lived so long, that the world itself looks 
old and grey to us now.”‘ 

Then he told him the story of the black and 
white paint, — and how the advice of an aged 
man prevented him from making his little estate 
look ridiculous when he was young. 


THE COTTAGER. 


27 


“ I have thought of this circumstance,” said he, 
“so often, that it has given me instruction. He 
who gave me the black paint, proved to be an 
enemy; and he who urged me to use the white, 
was a friend. The advice of neither was good.” 

“Those who love us too well are blind to our 
faults, — and those who dislike us, are not willing 
to see our virtues. One would make us all 
white, — the other all black. But neither of them 
are right. For we are of a mixed nature, good 
and evil, like the grey paint, made of opposite 
qualities. 

“ If, then, neither the counsel of our foes, nor of 
our partial friends, is safe to be taken, we should 
cultivate a correct judgment, which, like the 
grey paint, mixing both together, may avoid the 
evil and secure the good.” 


Hartford , Conn. 


28 


THE VIOLET. 


THE KIQtLQ® 


BY MRS. S. J. HALE. 


Oh ! blest art thou, whose steps may rove 
Through the green paths of vale and grove, 

Or leaving all their charms below, 

Climb the wild mountain’s airy brow: 

And gaze afar o’er cultured plains, 

And cities with their stately fanes, 

And forests that beneath thee lie, 

And ocean mingling with the sky. 

Mrs. Hemans. 

It was the “ Fourth of July /” — our national 
holiday, — and every little boy and girl in North- 
ampton anticipated the delights of a day of free- 
dom and frolicking. The schools were all closed, 
no lessons or tasks were required; and from sun- 


THE HOLIDAY. 


29 


rise till the shades of night came, like the frown 
of a schoolmaster, to check the merriment, — 
every one was privileged to be joyous. 

Abroad, in the bright sunshine, went troops of 
children, shouting in wild glee, as they bounded 
away over the green fields, now plucking fruits 
or flowers; and then stopping in hushed silence to 
listen to the warble of some bird, who was dart- 
ing from tree to tree above their heads ; and soon 
the young voices of the children would be heard 
singing a response to the glad notes of the 
birds, or laughing with that ringing merriment 
which none but happy, innocent hearts can feel 
and utter. 

It was through such a joyous scene, in one of 
the rich meadows, which borders on the Connec- 
ticut, that Mrs. Freeman and her little daughter 
Lucy were walking. The mother was conduct- 
ing her child to pass the day with her cousins, 
who lived about a quarter of a mile beyond the 
broad meadow which stretched from the garden 
of Mr. Freeman. Little Lucy was delighted to 
have her mother walk with her, and she kept 
prattling every step of the way, asking questions 


30 


THE VIOLET. 


about the day, and the reason why it was made 
a holiday. Their mother, the evening previ- 
ous, had explained these matters to her children, 
James, and Henry, and Lucy; and the little girl 
wished to show her mother that she remembered 
all about it. At last she exclaimed, — 

“ Look, dear mother, look ! — there is John 
Tracy rolling up the hay — only see how hard 
he works!” — and the child gazed earnestly in 
her mother’s face, pulling at the same time the 
hand that held her tiny fingers in its so t grasp. 

“ O yes, Lucy, I see John is very busy, turn- 
ing and shaking the hay about, so that it may 
dry the sooner. I presume he fears it will rain 
before night, and that makes him hurry so fast. 
He is a good, industrious boy, and your father 
will pay him well for his work,” — said Mrs. 
Freeman. 

“But why does he work to-day 1” — asked Lu- 
cy, still pulling her mother’s hand. Little chil- 
dren are very apt to fear that their questions will 
not be heeded, if they do not seem very much in 
earnest; but they never should show impatience. 
It is often inconvenient for their mother to answer 


THE HOLIDAY. 


31 


their questions as soon as asked; and should she 
tell them to wait a while, though she may not 
tell them why they must wait, yet they should 
not tease her with another word, but be quiet 
till they see she is quite at leisure; and then, if 
she does not recollect the question, they may go 
close up to her side, and ask her, in a soft, plea- 
sant tone of voice, if she has time to answer 
them then. 

Lucy Freeman was usually a quiet little girl, 
and her mother was always willing to talk with 
her, — but she now told her not to speak quite 
so loud, as she again repeated, — 

“Why does John work on the holiday, mo- 
ther!” 

“ He chooses to work, my child,” said Mrs. 
Freeman. “He might have gone with your bro- 
thers a fishing; but then he would not have 
earned any money to-day, and he wanted fifty 
cents, which your father pays him every night 
when he goes home, to carry to his poor mother — 
and this is the reason why John works on a holi- 
day.” 


32 


THE VIOLET. 


“But why do not James and Henry work for 
you, as John does for his mother V* asked Lucy. 

“ Because, my love, your father has been blessed 
with good health, and with many friends ; and he 
had the advantage of an excellent education, and 
also had some money to begin business with — 
and he has been prosperous, and now owns houses 
and lands ; and so he can provide every thing that 
I need or wish for, and can maintain his children 
without their working while they are young — 
as that is the best time for them to attend school, 
and he wishes to give them a good education.” 

“But does not John want an education, too, 
mother'!” persisted Lucy. 

“O yes; and he ought to have time to attend 
school, now he is young; but his father is dead, 
and his mother has three little children, younger 
than John; and she is sick too, and very poor — 
and so her son must work for them all. I do 
wish I could contrive some way to send him to 
school.” 

“ O ! dear mother, you can send him ; I will 
stay at home and work for his poor mother and 


THE HOLIDAY. 


33 


and sisters, and I am sure that James and Henry 
will give them . their pocket-money. Ho send 
John to school,” entreated Lucy, the tears swell- 
ing into her bright blue eyes, and looking like 
drops of dew sparkling in the sunshine on the 
fresh leaves of a violet. 

Mrs. Freeman kissed her little daughter, as she 
said, “ I am glad to find, Lucy, that you feel for 
the poor ; I hope, my dear child, that your heart 
will ever retain these warm, generous emo- 
tions; we are always happiest ourselves when we 
feel kindly towards others, and especially when 
we seek to do good to the poor and to those who 
have none to help them.” 

******* * 

The holiday was over — the children fatigued 
with a day of pleasure, had retired, when Mrs. 
Freeman related to her husband the conversation 
she had held with Lucy, and described the grief 
of the little girl, because John could not go to 
school. 

Mr. Freeman replied, not without emotion, “ Oh, 
we may learn much of our duty from the lips of 
little children, if we will only attend to the simple 
3 


34 


THE VIOLET. 


wisdom of their remarks. I have been thinking 
of this matter to-day. When I looked on my own 
sons, dressed so neatly, and coming from the plea- 
sant school-room to enjoy a bright holiday, and 
contrasted their situations with that of poor John, 
who was so patiently toiling in my employ every 
day, and hardly earning enough to allow himself 
a sufficiency of coarse food, and the plainest cloth- 
ing, I felt that I ought, from the abundance with 
which God has blessed me, to supply more gene- 
rously his necessities. An education is one of his 
most pressing wants.” 

“ But can he not attend the free school 1” asked 
Mrs. Freeman. 

“ Certainly, if he has clothes, books, and food, 
found him ; or, in other words, if he is maintained. 
But if children at the age of seven or eight are 
put out to masters, they can have little advan- 
tage of the free schools. — I think that every state 
in the Union should provide, by law, for the edu- 
cation of every child — oblige the inhabitants of 
every town and county to keep their children 
at school from the age of four to fourteen — those 
children who have no parents, or whose parents 


THE HOLIDAY. 


35 


are too poor to maintain them at school, should 
be assisted to do it by the state. And no child 
should be allowed to go into any service which 
would prevent him or her from attending school, 
till they arrive at the specific age. If the rich 
and intelligent would only take this matter into 
serious consideration, they would see how neces- 
sary this general education is to the preservation 
of political privileges, our property, and all we 
hold dearest — and in no other way can the moral 
improvement of our people be secured.” 

“ They will have a noble institution in Philadel- 
phia,” remarked Mrs. Freeman — “The Orphans’ 
College.” 

“Ah, yes; Girard’s plan is a glorious one; but 
what a pity that he did not put it in operation 
twenty years before his own departure. He would 
then have had the blessing of the fatherless, 
and of the dying, around his daily path; and 
these things would have softened his heart, and 
given a brighter scene to his bed of death. When 
will men learn that true happiness consists in do- 
ing good while they live — not in leaving a great 
estate when they die. 


36 


THE VIOLE'a 


SNOW-BALLING ; 


OR, 

THE © M B Q © IF ESI A § ® ® tL tL A E □ 

A STORY FOUNDED ON FACT. 

/ 

BY MISS LESLIE. 

“Father,” said Robert Hamlin (the son of a 
respectable mechanic in Philadelphia), “ to-mor- 
row, you know, is Christmas-day. I suppose that, 
as usual, you are going to give each of us a 
present by way of Christmas box. Will you tell 
me how much each of these presents is to cost?” 

“A dollar each,” replied Mr. Hamlin. “As I 
wish to be consistent in all my expenses, that is 
as much as I think proper to allot, at present, 
to each of the Christmas gifts of my five children. 




r\ tp s 

\ , /i 

9 V KJci 




o 





SNOW-BALLING. 


37 


But why did you ask 1 And now that you know 
the sum, do you think it too small?” 

“Oh! not at all,” answered Robert. “I am 
sure it is quite as much as any of us ought to 
have, while we are still children ; unless, indeed, 
dear father, you were a very rich man. As to 
my reason for asking — you know we must always 
tell the exact truth : so I was going to say, that, 
if you are quite willing, I would rather, for my 
part, have the dollar itself, the real silver dollar, 
than the thing you would buy me with it : what- 
ever that thing might be.” 

“ In plain terms,” said Mr. Hamlin, “ you wish 
to have the pleasure of laying out a dollar, 
exactly according to your own taste.” 

“That is the fact,” replied Robert; “you know 
I never yet have had a whole dollar at once — 
never in my life. To be sure, dear father, the 
Christmas boxes you have heretofore given me, 
were always very pretty, and very useful, and very 
sensible, and no doubt this will be the same — 
but I think I should like to be allowed to 
spend a dollar, this Christmas, just as I please.” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Hamlin. “1 have no 


38 


THE VIOLET. 


objection to gratify you ; therefore, to-morrow, you 
shall have a dollar, precisely at your own disposal.” 

“ And you will not even advise me what to buy 
with it?” asked Robert. 

“ I will not even advise you,” answered Mr. 
Hamlin. 

The other children (who were all little girls,) 
preferred the agreeable surprise of finding when 
they awoke on Christmas morning, their pretty 
presents waiting for them on a chair by the bed- 
side, and they were all highly delighted with 
the things their father had selected for them. 
When the family assembled at the breakfast table, 
a silver dollar lay on Robert’s plate. “ Thank you, 
dear father,” said he. “ I am sure, when a boy, 
you must often have found how pleasant it was 
to have sometimes an opportunity of being happy 
in your own way.” 

“ Robert,” said Mrs. Hamlin, “ I have only one 
caution to give you. It is, that if you lay out that 
dollar at the confectioners, it will be best not to 
eat all your sweet things in one day, lest you 
make yourself sick.” 

“There is no danger of that, dear mother,” 


SNOW-BALLING. 


39 


answered Robert, “for of course I could not 
possibly buy a whole dollar's worth of sweet 
things, without giving some of them to any boys 
of my acquaintance, that I may happen to see — 
particularly to William Anderson, whose mother, 
rich as she is, never has a good thing in her house, 
from one year’s end to another.” 

“ Hush,” said Mrs. Hamlin, “ you must not 
talk so freely. No doubt, Mrs. Anderson devotes 
her money to more useful purposes, than in pro- 
viding what children call good things.” 

“Well,” resumed Robert, “I am glad that 
Christmas is a holiday, so that I can have the 
whole day before me, to fix upon the best way of 
laying out my dollar.” 

As soon as breakfast was over, our young hero 
sallied forth into the street, which was filled with 
persons going to make purchases of Christmas 
gifts. It was a clear bright morning, and the 
srtow lay glittering in the sunshine. The whole 
appearance of the central part of the city, was 
gay and animated, as it always is at this period 
of the year. Various balls and parties being in 
prospect, great numbers of ladies were out shop- 


40 


THE VIOLET. 


ping'. The fancy stores were resplendent with 
elegant ribbons, laces, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and 
reticules; and the shops for artificial flowers, 
made a 'display that rivalled nature in her most 
blooming season. The windows of the jewellers 
were even more brilliant than usual. The doors 
of the toy-shops were surrounded with crowds of 
children, looking-in admiringly, particularly at 
Bauersach’s, in Market street, where the enor- 
mous dolls, habited in satin and gold, were gazed 
at with longing eyes, by innumerable little girls, 
who sighed to hear that the prices of these mag- 
nificent effigies were not less than twenty dollars; 
while the boys were equally attracted by the 
richly caparisoned rocking-horses. The restau- 
rateurs displayed their immense swans, feathered 
all over with a plumage of lard, in a manner 
which no one but a French cook could either 
contrive or execute. Nothing of the kind could 
be more tempting to the eye and to the palate, 
than the articles, in endless variety, which filled 
the windows of the pastry-cooks, whose numerous 
establishments have made Philadelphia famous 
as the city of cakes and pies; a character by 


SNOW-BALLING. 


41 


which it seems she was distinguished even a 
century ago, and which she is certainly in no 
danger of losing. 

But the greatest crowd was at Henrion, the 
confectioner’s, whose glittering pagodas, and tem- 
ples of sugar, and elegant sugar baskets filled 
with sugar fruit, excited still less admiration than 
the fidelity to nature, with which, in the same 
sweet material, were represented objects that 
were certainly not characterised by their beauty. 
There were, for instance, in the windows and 
glass cases, mutton chops, sausages, boiled 
lobsters, pieces of bacon, cabbages, carrots, loaves 
of bread, &c., all made of sugar, and coloured to 
the life; besides, cockroaches, beetles, spiders, 
and other ugly insects, formed chiefly of chocolate, 
but looking almost like reality. 

Even the confectioners’ stalls, at the corners of 
the street, made an unusual display on account of 
the season, being decorated with festoons of green 
cedar and laurel leaves, and with oranges 
'suspended in circles. Their glass jars were 
replenished anew with sugar candy, mint-stick, 
peppermint-drops, burnt almonds, chocolate-nuts, 


42 


THE VIOLET. 


and nougat, and their shelves embellished with 
ranges of white and gold paper cases, bags, and 
baskets, filled with sugar plumbs, and tied with 
bright coloured ribbons ; not to mention the well 
stored boxes of prunes, almonds, and cream-nuts, 
the drums of figs, the immense bunches of raisins 
and white grapes, and the huge masses of dates 
with which these out-door merchants are always 
supplied. “ What a pity it is that a dollar is 
only a dollar,” thought Robert. “ I believe I will 
look no more at the cake and confectionary places.” 
But he was equally tempted by the various pretty 
things exhibited in the windows of the fancy 
stationers, particularly by their silver pencils, 
some of which he found were within the compass 
of his means. Then the play-bills on the comers, 
boasted of surpassing attractions; and sleighing 
seemed so pleasant as he passed a stand of these 
vehicles, that he was half tempted to bargain 
with one of the drivers for a dollar’s worth. 

While Robert was still undecided in what way 
to make his Christmas box yield him the largest 
quantity of happiness, he saw at the end of a 
court or alley some rude boys engaged in snow- 


SNOW-BALLING. 


43 


balling, and it was only by dodging behind a cask 
which stood near a grocery store, that he escaped 
,being struck on the head by one of their missiles. 
The boys laughed so loudly, and were in such 
high glee, that Robert’s predilection for the sport 
began to awaken. One of the snow-balls, how- 
ever, struck the nose of a woman that was 
standing looking at them, and hurt her severely. 
Her husband, much incensed, ran out of his house 
with the tongs in his hand, and put the boys 
immediately to flight; Robert being glad that he 
did not belong to them. 

On turning the corner, he came opposite to a 
row of very handsome new houses, in front of 
which, he saw a party of rather genteel looking 
boys, engaged also in snow-balling. One of their 
balls actually did hit Robert, and knocked off his 
leather cap, and he could not resist his inclination 
to return it. Upon which, he made up a very 
large, and very hard snow-ball, and threw it, as 
he supposed, with certain aim ; but it missed the 
boy at whom it was directed, and broke through 
a window pane of one of the houses, passing over 
the head of a pretty little girl, who was sitting 


44 


THE VIOLET. 


near the window, engaged in reading one of the 
new annuals, and who screamed loudly, and 
starting up, ran to the back of the room. Robert, 
frightened at what he had done, flew round the 
corner to conceal himself in the alley. In the 
meantime, a black servant man came out on the 
steps of the house where the window had been 
broken, exclaiming to the boys — “Ah ! you young 
nimps — only wait till the gentleman comes home 
— I’ll be bound Mr. Cleveland will give you 
enough of snow-balling, for smashing his rights 
and property in this way, without leave or 
license.” 

“ I do not suppose he would have given us leave, 
even if we had asked him,” said one of the boys, 
laughing. 

“ It’s clear felony,” resumed the negro, “ and 
burgalry too. What’s window breaking, but 
house breaking. Which of you’s done this!” 

“ Do you think we are ninnies enough to tell, 
old CufFee !” answered another of the boys. 

“No more Cuffee than yourself,” cried the black 
man indignantly. “ Arn’t my name Virgil Wad- 


SNOW-BALLING. 


45 


dington 1 But only wait till Mr. Cleveland comes 
home.” 

“But we won’t wait,” said the boys; “we are 
not such fools.” — And they all ran off, and were 
out of sight in a moment. 

The lady of the house now called in her servant, 
reproved him for parleying with the boys, and 
desired him to go immediately and bring a glazier 
to replace the broken pane with a new one. The 
nearest glazier lived in the court into which 
Robert Hamlin had retreated, and was just coming 
out of his door, when Mr. Cleveland’s servant met 
him with the message respecting the broken 
window-glass. It was overheard by Robert, who 
was standing close by with his head turned from 
them, looking at the window of a huckster’s shop, 
and apparently engaged in admiring the tumblers 
of brass thimbles and cotton balls, the hard apples, 
hanks of coarse tape, tough ginger cakes, bundles 
of matches, penny primmers, earthen pans, dip 
candles, and smoked herrings; but in reality, not 
observing a single article of the whole medley. 

The glazier went back into his shop for his tools, 
and then proceeded towards Mr. Cleveland’s house, 


46 


THE VIOLET. 


with the servant walking a step or two behind, and 
Robert, who had an invincible desire to know the 
whole, following unseen. “ Was there any other 
damage done by the snow-ball 1” asked the glazier, 
speaking over his shoulder to Virgil. “Plenty,” 
answered the negro. “Little Miss Emily’s head 
was nearly knocked off ; or would, if she had’n’t 
duck'd it. And the big chandelier would have 
been smash’d to flinders, only it hung too high up. 
I dare say, every pane in the window was crack’d 
more or less with the jar and the shake ; hut one 
was fairly drove in. I seed it with my own eyes. 
And the broken glass flew all over one of the 
ottomans, and would have killed the old cat that 
always lays there, only that just then he happened 
to be taking his nap on the hearth-rug. The 
snow-ball must have been as hard as a stone, from 
the quantity of snow that was in it, when it fell 
to pieces all over the carpet. And Mrs. Cleve- 
land’s sister, that has the nerves, would have been 
frightened into strong asterics, only she was not 
at home.” 

“Well,” said the glazier, “it might have been 
worse. From what I understand, the damage will 


SNOW-BALLING. 


47 


only cost the dollar I shall have to charge for 
putting in the new window pane.” 

“ Are you going to charge a dollar 1” asked 
Virgil. 

“To be sure,” replied the glazier; “that is the 
usual price for these large panes of plate-glass. 
I was old Simon Putty well’s journeyman, when 
that house of Mr. Cleveland’s was built, and Simon 
and I put in every pane of glass with our own 
hands. So I know all about them.” 

Robert Hamlin heard this dialogue with much 
regret. His parents were sensible and conscien- 
tious people ; and enlightened by the principles 
they had instilled into him, he saw in a moment 
that the gentleman whose window-glass he had 
broken, ought not to be the loser of a dollar by 
liis snow-balling. He began to think that he 
should not feel satisfied if he spent, in any grati- 
fication of his own, the dollar his father had given 
him for a Christmas box, when it would afford 
him the means of paying what he now considered 
his debt to Mr. Cleveland. He became very much 
troubled, and the sight of the tempting things in 


48 


THE VIOLET. 


the shop windows now grew tantalizing and painful 
to him. 

Robert went pensively home, and found the 
family just sitting down to their Christmas dinner. 
His mother informed him, that they were all 
invited to spend the evening at his aunt Milrow’s, 
where there was to be a juvenile party. Robert 
became still more troubled, and felt as if he should 
not be able to enjoy the party while his mind was 
so oppressed ; and yet he could not resolve to give 
up all or any of the pleasures that he might pro- 
cure with his dollar. 

“Well, Robert,” said his father, “what have 
you done with your Christmas box'?” 

“ Nothing, as yet,” replied Robert ; “ but I shall 
fix upon something, in the course of the after- 
noon.” 

“ True,” said his father, smiling. “ To one that 
has never before possessed a whole dollar, it is no 
doubt a sum of too much magnitude to be hastily 
disposed of.” 

Robert blushed, and looked uneasy ; and to his 
mother’s great surprise, declined being helped to 
a second slice of roast turkey ; and, more wonderful 


SNOW-BALLING. 


49 


still, refused even a first piece of mince-pie, 
saying, “ Mother, I cannot eat any mince-pie now, 
but perhaps, if you will put a piece by for me, I 
should like it after awhile. Just now, if you will 
let me leave the table, I would rather go out 
again.” 

“I conclude,” said Mr. Hamlin, “you have 
just been struck with a bright thought as to the 
disposal of that dollar.” 

“You have guessed rightly, dear father,” re- 
plied Robert. “I have now determined exactly 
what to do with it.” 

He then departed, and immediately took his 
| way to the residence of Mr. Cleveland. He rang 
at the door and inquired for that gentleman, who 
came out immediately. 

“ Sir,” said the boy, colouring and looking 
confused ; “ I was so unlucky this morning as to 
I break, with a snow-ball, a pane of glass in one of 
your parlour windows. I have brought you a dollar 
f (which is my Christmas box,) to pay for the new 
I glass that has been put in.” 

Mr. Cleveland looked surprised, and paused for 
a few moments before he replied. “I will take 
4 


50 


THE VIOLET. 




this money,” said he, at length; “my doing so, 
will enforce more deeply, a salutary lesson as to 
the consequences that may accrue from the mis- 
chievous practice of throwing snow-balls. But 
you are an honest, and an honourable boy ; and I 
foresee that you will do well in the world. Who 
is your father! He must have set you a good 
example. What is his name and yours!” 

Robert briefly replied to these questions. — 
“Ah!” said the gentleman; “I know Mr. Hamlin, 
from having had work done at his shop, and he has 
always given me the utmost satisfaction. Come, I 
must shake hands with you.” 

Robert smiled, and brushed the tears from his 
eyes, and having given his hand to Mr. Cleveland, 
who pressed it kindly, he jumped down the steps 
with that lightness of heart, which always results 
from the consciousness of having acted rightly. 
“ After all,” thought he, as, on his way home, he 
tried to reconcile himself to the loss of the plea- 
sures he had expected to derive from his dollar; 
“ the sacrifice is not so great but that I can bear 
it very well.” As he passed the stand of sleighs, 
in one of which he had thought of taking a dollar 


SNOW-BALLING. 


51 


ride ; “I am not sure,” said he to himself, “ that 
it is not almost as good to hang on behind a sleigh, 
as to sit in one. And then I have an excellent 
sled, that I made myself.” 

When he came to De Young’s, and saw again 
the silver pencils, displayed on cards in the win- 
dow; “ they are very pretty,” said he; “particularly 
the one that has little stars all over it; but Tom 
Randall, who has a silver pencil, acknowledges, 
that on the whole, a good cedar one, with fine lead 
in it, is much more manageable, and pleasanter to 
use.” 

In passing Bauersach’s, — “ Well,” said he, “ as 
fortunately lam not a girl, I have no longing for 
one of these glittering dolls, and as to the rocking- 
horses, I am quite too big a boy to derive any 
pleasure from sitting on a piece of painted wood, 
that only pitches back and forwards, without ever 
advancing a step. To see-saw on a common board, 
is much more amusing, because you make it go up 
and down with far greater force. Indeed, there 
are few toys that a boy does not get tired of in ten 
minutes. And as to Henrion’s sugar things, they 
are certainly very pretty, and very ingenious ; but 


52 


THE VIOLET. 


I doubt if any of them taste as well as they look ; 
and then they are so curiously made, that I should 
think it a pity to destroy them, by eating them at 
all.” 

By this process of reasoning, did our young 
philosopher endeavour to reconcile himself to the j 
sacrifice of his Christmas dollar to a just sense | 
of the principles of right. When he got home, 
the family gladly observed that his countenance 
was wonderfully brightened, and that he was in a | 
state of great satisfaction. “ Mother,” said he, “ I 
think I can eat my mince-pie, now.” “ I suppose 
then,” said Mrs. Hamlin, giving him the piece : 
she had set away for him, “ by your mind being 
now at ease, you have gotten rid of your dollar.” 

“I have, indeed,” replied Robert. “And how 
have you disposed of it!” “ In paying for a window- 
glass, that I broke with a snow-ball,” said Robert, 
manfully : and he then related all that had passed. 

The eyes of his mother filled with tears, as she 
kissed him at the conclusion of his little narrative ; 
and she hastily left the room. In a few minutes, 
she returned with his father, who embraced Robert, 
and said to him — “My son, I rejoice in you. I 


SNOW-BALLING. 


53 


regard this evidence of early integrity, as an 
earnest of your becoming an upright and honour- 
able man, and one that will dignify the station to 
which you belong.” 

“Dear father,” said Robert, “nothing that I 
might have bought with my dollar, or even with a 
five dollar note, could have given me half the 

t 

happiness that I feel now. But I will never throw 
a snow-ball again.” 

They all went to the party at their aunt Mil- 
row’s, where they spent a delightful evening, and 
where no one was so gay and so pleasant as Robert 
Hamlin. 

From this time, Mr. Hamlin was constantly 
employed in the line of his business, by Mr. 
Cleveland, who also recommended to him other 
customers,- and did every thing in his power to 
promote his interest. He offered to take Robert 
into his counting-house when he was old enough ; 
but the boy preferred learning the trade of his 
father; and before he commenced his apprentice- 
ship, Mr. Cleveland made him a present of a very 
handsome set of working tools to begin with. 


54 


THE VIOLET 




THE 

©HU® DM A ® ‘O' ® m K1 a 


Come out, pretty rose-bud, my lone, timid one! 

Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at 
the sun; 

For little he does in these dull autumn hours 

At height’ning of beauty, or laughing with 
flowers. 

His beams, on thy tender young cheek that he 
plays, 

Will give it a blush which no other can raise. 

Thy fine silken petals he’ll softly unfold, 

And pour in their centre sweet odours and 
gold. 


THE ROSE BUD IN AUTUMN. 


55 


I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth; 

But beauty, we know is the offspring of health; 

And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is 
bright 

With feasting on breezes and drinking the 
light. 

Then come, pretty bud, from thy covert peep 
out, 

And see what the glad, laughing sun is about. 

His darts, if they hit thee will only impart, 

A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart ! 

H. F. GOULD. 


Newburyport , Mass. 




THE VIOLET. 




THE 


©A® © g /A Kfl © “u* B S © ©a 


Mamma, I’ve lost thy thimble, 
And my spool has rolled away; 

My arms are aching dreadfully, 
And I want to go and play. 

I’ve spent a half an hour, 

Picking out this endless seam; 

So many pieces in a shirt, 

Is quite a foolish scheme. 

If I could set the fashion, 

I know what I would do; 

I’d not be troubling people 
To sit so long and sew. 


THE BAD SEAMSTRESS. 


57 


I’d put some homespun on their necks, 
And sew it all around, 

And make them look like cotton bags, 
Plac’d endwise on the ground. 

I hate to make these button holes; 

I do not love to stitch; 

My thread keeps breaking all the time, 
With just a little twitch. 

( 

There’s Johnny playing marbles, 

And Susan skipping rope, 

They have finished all their easy tasks, 
Whilst I must sit and mope. 

I think, mamma, ’tis very hard, 

That you should keep me here, 

When the blue sky looks so temptingly, 
And the sun is shining clear. 

Mamma ! She’s gone and left me, 

And closely locked the door; 

Mamma ! mamma ! come back again, 

I will not grumble more. 


58 


THE VIOLET. 


Oh dear ! how foolish I have been — 

Alone 1 here must stay. 

Mamma ! mamma ! come back again, 
Forgive your child, I pray. 

Alas, she’s reached the balcony, 

And means not to return ; 

Oh, what a look she cast on me, 

So sad, and yet so stern. 

CAROLINE GILMAN. 


Charleston , S. C. 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


59 


THE © Q B IT H ® ©AtLtLg 


OR, 


THE COUNTRY COUSINS. 


“ Oh ! dear, I hope it won’t rain, Mrs. Jones,” 
said Lucy Smith, to the good-natured housekeeper, 
as she sat at the window of her father’s handsome 
house, watching the clouds of an April morning. 

“ Fear and trembling fan the fires of joy,” 
and every little white fleecy vapour that passed 
over the azure of heaven, seemed in her fancy’s 
eye the precursor of a storm. 

“ I’ll ask papa, what he thinks,” continued she, 
jumping from her perch on the window frame, as 
her father entered the breakfast parlour; “I know 
what you would ask, my love,” said he, (parting 
the clustering curls on her forehead and kissing it,) 


60 


THE VIOLET. 


“ but you must restrain your impatience. I have 
scarcely heard another word from your mouth, my 
darling, since this day week ; your earliest saluta- 
tion being always, ‘good morning, papa, don’t 
you think it will be clear next Thursday V or, 
‘Mrs. Jones, you don’t think it will rain next 
Thursday, do you V and the last I hear of you at 
night, is, ‘ good evening, papa, — oh ! I do so want 
a beautiful day, next Thursday.’ But Thursday 
has arrived at last ; and here is as fine a begin- 
ning of a day, as you could hope to see. But 
come, Lucy, the babbling of the urn is calling 
us ; and Mrs. Jones there, looks as if she would 
have no objection to some breakfast herself.” 

While Lucy sits playing with her spoon, (for 
as to her eating, that was a thing out of the ques- 
tion,) I will tell you, dear reader, why she was 
so anxious for a clear day. This day, this most 
momentous of the three hundred and sixty-five, 
was her tenth birth-day, and her ever indulgent 
father, had promised her a ball ; it was her first, 
and Lucy felt very much like a woman, indeed. 
Now, to tell the truth, although a good hearted child, 
Lucy’s faults were very numerous. But she had 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


61 


no mother to be a kind monitor to her ; no elder 
sister or brother, to whom she might look for 
example. Her father could not leave his business 
to attend to his little girl ; and, therefore, he 
confided her to Miss Miller, her governess, (a 
fine showy looking woman, who thought more of 
person, than of mind,) and to Mrs. Jones, the 
housekeeper ; never dreaming that she was in 
otherwise than excellent hands. 

But nothing can compensate for the love of a 
judicious mother, whose example corresponds with 
her precepts. Though her governess told her it 
was wrong for children to be vain, yet whenever 
Lucy cried, Miss Miller would tell her to wipe 
her pretty eyes, as crying would make them red, 
and spoil all their beauty. 

Though she told Lucy that it was naughty to 
take pride in dress, or to think herself superior to 
others because her father was rich; yet she was 
continually proposing new finery for her, and 
talking to her deridingly of those of her friends, 
whose parents could not afford to array them ex- 
pensively ; so that whatever good might have been 
done by precept, was undone by the force of 


62 


THE VIOLET. 


example; and Lucy, even at ten years of age, 
had a passion for silks, and laces, and jewellery, 
and her little heart was as elate with pride as with 
pleasure, at the costly arrangements for her fete. 
In the first place, the parlour carpets were taken 
up, and the floors chalked to represent wreaths of 
roses inside of which the cotillions were to be 
formed. The walls were festooned all round with 
flowers, as were the large and brilliant chandeliers 
that glittered in the centre of the ceiling, and the 
beautiful gilt branches, that supported fancy- 
coloured wax candles. All was splendour and 
beauty ; and the heart of Lucy was in a tumult of 
delight and impatience. 

As noon approached the sky seemed to get 
brighter and brighter; and after dinner the fre- 
quent cry of “ dress me, dress me,” or, “ I shall 
be too late,” became so wearisome, that Miss 
Miller, with a black shoe and white stocking on 
one foot, and a black stocking and white shoe on 
the other, jumped up in despair, at the uncontrol- 
ability of Lucy, who had worked herself into a 
pet, and flounced and flung at every thing that 
was done for her: she would wear that ribbon, 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


63 


and she would not wear those beads, and she must 
have a laced pocket-handkerchief ; and what with 
her will-ing, and won’t-ing, and the loss of an 
hour, spent in perverseness, Miss Lucy Smith 
descended into the parlour, in quite an ill-humour ; 
and it was not, ’till troop after troop of her young 
friends arrived, that the clouds of vexation 
entirely left her brow. 

As soon as the visiters had all assembled, tea 
was announced, and the whole party adjourned to 
the eating-room, where good Mrs. Jones sat at the 
head of the table, in a dark brown silk gown, a 
neat book-muslin handkerchief spread nicely over 
her shoulders and pinned at either end to her belt, 
and a new bobbinet cap tied under the chin with 
a strip of the same ; while Miss Miller sat at the 
foot, in a green gros-de-Naples, made in the height 
of the prevailing fashion, with a stiff-looking 
pointed body, of enormous length, sleeves pro- 
fusely ruffled from the shoulders to the elbow, a 
double French-worked collar, fastened with a bow 
of ribbon, in the centre of which shone a large 
cameo breast-pin, to match her earrings. 

The sides of the table were filled with the happy 


64 


THE VIOLET. 


little girls, dressed in all colours and costumes, so 
that it resembled a beautiful garden, full of every 
variety of flowers. 

While the black servants, with silver waiters in 
their hands, were carrying round the first cups, a 
coach was heard to stop at the door ; the bell rung, 
and the master of the house was called out of the 
room to see a gentleman who had just arrived 
from a beautiful village in the valley of Wyoming, 
having under his care two pretty little girls, (one 
about nine, and the other seven,) that had come on 
a visit to Lucy. They w 7 ere her cousins, and the 
children of her father’s sister. Mr. Smith had 
invited them by letter to come to Philadelphia, as 
early in the spring as the weather and roads would 
allow, and pass some weeks with his daughter. 
The gentleman, (a neighbour of their parents,) 
having brought the little girls and their baggage 
to the end of their journey, now delivered them 
to their uncle, who received them affectionately; 
and unwilling to disturb the company at the tea- 
table by calling out Lucy, Mr. Smith consigned 
his young nieces to one of the maids, who under- 
took to prepare them for their appearance at the 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


65 


party, by exchanging their travelling attire, for 
the handsomest equipments to be found in their 

I trunks. 

In a short time, a gentle tap was heard at the 
eating-room door, and Mr. Smith surmising that 
the new guests were now ready to be presented, 
rose and opened it, and then led them in, blushing 
and smiling, and holding fast by each hand of their 
uncle. 

“I bring you an agreeable surprise, Lucy,” 
said her father. But Lucy thought the surprise 
any thing but agreeable, on beholding what she 
considered the unfashionable and countrified dresses 
of her young cousins. She would have given the 
world for them to have deferred their visit till 
after her ball — but was obliged to receive them 
graciously. 

Their uncle placed Mary and Ellen Thomson 
beside him at table, and introduced them to some 
very pleasant little girls, whose seats were in their 
immediate vicinity. And when tea was over the 
Miole company returned to the parlour, and the 
dancing was commenced to the music of three 
violins and a tambourine. We are sorry to say 
5 


66 


THE VIOLET. 


that Lucy, when she saw several foolish and 
impertinent girls, laughing and whispering about 
the dresses of the country cousins, rather encou- 
raged than repressed their rudeness. 

Ellen and Mary had not yet learned to dance, 
and, therefore, were obliged to sit still as spectators. 
Indeed, there was not room for more than one half 
the company to join in the cotillions, and those 
that did not soon found it very dull to be mere 
lookers-on. Mary and Ellen asked some of the 
little girls that sat near them, if they never 
“ played plays.” On being answered that none 
of them knew any, “ That is a pity ” said Ellen ; 
“ w T e know a great many, and have a great deal of 
pleasure in them, when we are at home with our 
country friends.” “ Do show us some plays,” was 
the eager request of several little girls who could 
not dance ; and on application to Lucy, she con- 
ducted them into the library, where she told them 
they might have their plays all to themselves: 
being very glad to get rid for awhile of her country 
cousins, in what she called their awful dresses. 
Mary and Ellen Thomson, showed the little girls 
that had accompanied them to the library a variety 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


67 


of very amusing plays, such as, “ My Ladies 
Toilet,” “ Hunt the Slipper,” “ Stir the Mush,” 
“ Track the Rabbit,” &c., ail of which made them 
very merry. When they were tired of running 
about, they played, “How do you like it,” and 
“ the Elements ;” and other games of a quiet de- 
scription. Mary and Ellen Thomson gained great 
favour, by having enabled those that did not dance 
to pass so pleasant an evening. Indeed, many of 
the dancers, on discovering what was going on in 
the library, deserted the ball-room, to take a part 
in the diversions introduced by the country 
cousins. Even Lucy herself could not forbear 
joining them towards the close of the evening, 
saying to Miss Miller — “ After all, country cousins 
are good for something.” 

At last, the nice things having been eaten, the 
plays played, and the dances danced, sleep began 
to weigh heavily on the eye-lids of the younger 
children. Fathers and servants came to take them 
home, and Lucy and her cousins, too tired to talk, 
went gladly to their beds (which were in the 
same room,) and never awoke till the full beams of 
the morning sun darted through the curtains. 


68 


THE VIOLET. 


Up sprung 1 Mary hastily, for it was seldom, if 
ever, that such bright rays had visited her in bed. 

“There is no hurry for our getting up,” said 
Lucy ; “ I always lie in bed much later than this, 
even if I am awake : and as we were up till 
eleven o’clock last night I do not intend to rise 
till nine.” 

“ But you would not do so, if you lived in the 
country,” said little Ellen, raising her face from the 
pillow ; “ if you heard the fowls crowing, and the 
birds singing, and the little pigs grunting for joy to 
see the sun again ; if you had all these things at 
hand, l am sure you would be glad to join them.” 

“ What ! join the pigs 1 Oh ! Ellen for shame — 
you do not make companions of them surely 1” said 
Lucy, laughing. 

“ She did not mean to say, that she made com- 
panions of them, but she meant that she had joy, 
and pleasure in seeing them happy. Is not that it 
Ellen 1” asked Mary, tying the little red shoe string 
round her sister’s ancle. 

“Well, I was only joking,” said Lucy; “and 
now that you are both up, I believe I may as well 
rise also.” 


THE BIRTH-DAY BALL. 


69 


“Well,” said Mary, “I have often heard that 
habit is every thing. But for my part I always 
get up as soon as I am awake. Before this time in 
the morning, when we are at home, we are dressed 
and out in the garden, working at our flower 
beds.” 

“That may be very pretty employment,” said 
. Lucy ; “ but, for my part, as Miss Miller does not 
care how little she sees of me, and as my breakfast 
is always kept hot till I am ready for it, I prefer 
staying in my bed till I am tired lying there.” 

To conclude, Lucy soon became delighted with 
her country cousins, particularly after she had 
seen them equipped in new dresses, such as were 
worn in the city; and which their mother had 
requested Mr. Smith, in a letter, to have procured 
for them. At the end of a month, their father 
came to take them home, with an earnest invitation 
for Lucy to accompany them. Mr. Smith was 
very willing, and Lucy spent the summer in her 
uncle’s family, much to her pleasure and improve- 
ment. In the mean time Miss Miller was sent 
away, and a governess of a very different descrip- 
tion procured for Lucy; a sensible and amiable 


70 


THE VIOLET. 


lady from Boston, who completed what had been 
commenced by her aunt in the country, the 
conversion of Lucy into a most excellent girl. 


C. H. W. 


Philadelphia. 


{ 






INNOCENCE. 


71 


orcirci®©grci©i3a 


i. 

The golden days of Innocence 

Were only those when Adam trod 

The garden, — mind, and will, and sense, 

In sweet subjection to his God. 

II. 

% 

How swiftly flew those white-winged hours, 
Each with some hue of heaven imprest ! 
How honoured were those Eden bowers, 
Where some bright angel oft was guest! 


72 


THE VIOLET. 


III. 

Yet Innocence may still be seen 
In childhood’s presence. Who can gaze, 
Unmoved, upon that brow, serene, 

That agile form, those witching ways,’ 

IV. 

That playfulness of tiny mirth, 

That lively joy — and not confess 
That Innocence, still found on earth, 

Doth nestle in a child’s caress? 

V. 

And, therefore, when the painter’s art 
Would sketch its charms in pleasant view, 
Revealing the unpractised heart, — 

He always shows a child to you. 

WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. 


Philadelphia. 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


73 




BY MRS. M. GRIFFITH. 


Every body has heard of dear Jenny Hart, of 
the thread-and-needle store. You will find out all 
about her in the little book called “ Camperdown.” 
Well, she married Archy Campbell, and lives in a 
place called Camperdown; her house is the last 
in the row, and a very handsome house it is, too. 
The next one above hers belongs to Mrs. Norton 
— good aunt Norton, how all the children love 
her, and why — because she loves the children. 

“ Letty,” said dear Mrs. Campbell, “ what 
makes you so fidgetty; are you afraid that your 
lesson will detain you too long 1” 

“ Oh, no, mother; but sister Mary thinks she 


74 


THE VIOLET. 


never can finish hemming the apron, and brother 
Archy makes such a poor hand at threading 
needles for her, that he is as good as no help at 
all. If you would only be so good as to hear me 
say this lesson once more, I shall not plague you 
again ; and if I know it well enough, then I can 
help poor sister thread needles ; or rather thread all 
the needles for her.” 

Mrs. Campbell took the book, and Letty said 
every word perfectly ; so off* she flew to her sister, 
and, in a short time, the two sides and the bottom 
of the apron were neatly hemmed. Archy, the 
eldest brother, did his best; but boys are very 
awkward at threading needles, you know. 

Aunt Norton had promised the children to show 
them the beautiful colours in the prism, and all the 
wonders of the moss rose. She had such a pleasant 
way of telling things, that the children, and, 
indeed, their parents too, found great pleasure in 
listening to her. In the house next hers, lived 
Mr. Merry and his family, and next to him lived 
Mr. Gray and his family, and they all lived in the 
greatest harmony, and a pleasant little set of chil- 
dren they were. Mrs. Norton — she was Mrs. 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


75 


Armstrong in the “ thread-and-needle store,” — 
encouraged the children to come to her house, at 
a certain hour every day ; and that hour was looked 
forward to, with great eagerness. 

The sun shone brightly, and there lay several 
little prisms, and one very large one, they were 
bought of Mr. Feuchtwanger the chemist, in Broads 
way, New York, and fine ones they were too. 

“ Oh, aunt Norton, dear aunt Norton, how funny 
you do look through this prism ; why you are three 
feet broad, and ever so short,” said little Jenny Gray. 

“And now she looks ever so tall,” said Mary 
Campbell : “ and oh ! how thin.” 

“ Look at the lawn ! do look at the lawn !” said 
Jasper, a bright blue eyed boy of twelve — son of 
Jasper Merry. “Did ever any one see such 
brilliant colours all blended together — let me see 
if I can count them.” 

“No, that you cannot,” said another little fellow 
by the name of Barton ; “ I defy you to count 
them. Aunt Norton can we count the colours!” 

“Yes, my dear, they can be counted; but you 
must look in the middle of each colour, and begin 
in that way. What colour do you see at the 


76 


THE VIOLET. 


bottom 1 I shall ask you Archy, dear, for you are 
the oldest, and know something of optics.” 

“ I see the violet at the bottom, shaded off with 
blue.” “No, no,” exclaimed several little voices, it 
is not blue, Archy ; “ it is some other colour.” Mrs. 
Norton told them that it was indigo, and that blue 
came next. 

“And the next is green,” said Archy; “lean 
tell that colour fast enough; and then comes a 
beautiful yellow, growing darker and darker.” 

“ Yes ; that darkest part is orange, and now 
what is the last colour V’ 

“Why, that is red — let me see — violet — ah, 
the sweet colour, and our nice souvenir is called 
the ‘ Violet ;’ — this colour comes first.” 

“ No, Archy,” said his sister Letty, “ you are 
out there ; for in my glass the red comes first, does 
it not, aunt Norton 1” 

“ Yes, in your prism it does just now, as you 
hold it ; when you look down the bottom colour is 
red, but if you raise the prism and look upwards 
you will find that it is green. Some of the late 
writers on optics say that there are only four 
colours, and that all the others are mere shades, 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 77 

or mixtures of the others. Go on, Archy, and tell 
the little ones, how many colours there are, and in 
what order they stand.” 

“ Violet — indigo — blue — green — yellow — 
orange — red — and the letters at the beginning of 
each colour when joined together, form the word 
V i b g y o r — little ones, pray remember this, 
vibgyor. Aunt, can you tell where colour — all 
these beautiful colours come from?” 

“ No, my dear, that I cannot ; at one time it 
was supposed that colour belonged to light, because 
colour was only seen when light shone on it. Sir 
Isaac Newton, a great English philosopher, has 
written a great deal about the colours that you are 
now looking at. But it is not my intention to say 
anything more about the' prisms this morning; I 
want you all to examine these beautiful roses.” 

The children laid the prisms aside with great 
reluctance, and Jenny Gray, an intelligent child 
of twelve years of age, had been in a corner by 
herself, and was wondering why a change in the 
position of the prism should make such a change in 
the lines between the bricks. She was looking at 
a brick wall. 


78 


THE VIOLET. 


“Dear aunt Norton, just answer me this one 
question — look here, when I hold the prism 
horizontally, 1 cannot see the vertical lines of the 
bricks, (I mean the white mortar lines between the 
bricks,) and when I hold the prism vertically, I can 
only see the horizontal lines — is it not strange 
The children all flew to the prisms again, and 
sure enough it was as young Jenny said. Jenny 
was named after our old friend, Jenny Hart. Mrs. 
Norton had never observed the fact, and she 
thought it worth while to examine it. She looked 
through all the prisms, thinking that there might 
be some imperfection in the glass, but they all 
exhibited the same phenomenon. 

“ Archy Campbell, your eyes sparkle — have you 
found out the cause 1” said Mrs. Norton. 

“ No, aunt, not quite found out the cause ; but I 
have found out another thing; only look at the edge 
of the prism — boys and girls, each take up a 
glass — Jenny dear, you shall have the first say, 
because you made the discovery of the lines in 
the brick. Well, Jenny, what do you see 

“ Why, I see some lines standing out from the 
edge of the prism, they are not part of the glass, 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


79 


that is certain ; they appear to be lines made of air, 
and yet some are a little thicker than others. Oh ! 
Archy, my finger nail has the same air lines on the 
edge, and so has this pencil, and so has this 
hair.” 

Down went the prisms from each little hand, 
and every thing was held up to the light. True 
enough, the children found that these air lines 
surrounded every thing. Even between their 
fingers, when they held their hand up to the sun, 
they found the same air lines. They touched the 
edges of two prisms together, but closely as the 
glasses met it could not prevent these air lines 
from being seen. Oh ! what questions poured in 
upon Mrs. Norton, for this was the most curious 
thing of all. 

Letty Campbell rubbed and rubbed the edges of 
two prisms together, thinking to make them meet, 
but it would not do ; there were the provoking air 
lines still. “ Well, I will press the two convex 
points of these watch crystals together,” said the 
little girl ; “lam sure I can press two such small 
points together so closely as to push away the air 


80 


THE VIOLET. 


lines.” But closely as she held them together she 
could not exclude the air lines. 

“ Why, aunt Norton, these crystals certainly 
touch, do they not? Here, try them yourself, and 
look through the two points.” 

“ It is as you say, Letty, the glasses do not touch, 
you will be very much surprised when I tell you, 
that unless very great force is used, no two things 
can come so closely in contact, as to exclude these 
fringes, or air lines, as you call them. Have you 
ever seen a drop of water on a cabbage leaf in the 
morning, before the sun is up?” 

“ To be sure I have, often and often, and Archy 
has thrown dust on them, and rolled them over and 
over.” 

“ Well, Archy, did the dust stick to the drop of 
water, or did it fall from it on the leaf.” 

“ Why, it was the most curious thing in the 
World, my dear aunt I only wish you ^had been 
there to see it. I saw some fine large clear drops 
of water glistening like diamonds, on a cabbage 
leaf, and I let some of the dust of a bit of straw 
fall on them ; but the dust did not fall off, nor did 
it break the round drops, for they continued round. 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


81 


and the dust, as Letty said, stuck fast, although 
I raised the leaf up a little, so as to make the glo- 
bules of water move.” 

“Do you think, Archy, that there are any of 
these air lines between the lowest point of the 
drop of water and the leaf!” 

“ Oh no ! I can hardly think there are any there ; 
why the drop could not exist as a drop, unless it 
rested on the leaf.” 

“Yes; but did I not tell you just now, that no 
two bodies, whether great or small, could ever 
come in contact, unless all air was excluded. 
Don’t you recollect that your father prepared two 
pieces of lead by smoothing their surfaces very 
accurately.” 

“Yes; and they stuck together as closely as if 
they had been melted into one. But, aunt Norton, 
I will tell you of another very curious thing ; and I 
showed it to Letty and Mary at the time. I pushed 
a little strip of straw, about as thick as a cambric 
needle, into one of the large drops of water, and it 
went through and through without breaking the 
drop, and what is more extraordinary, it did not 
6 


82 


THE VIOLET. 


hinder the drop from rolling 1 over and over on the 
leaf.” 

“ That is really curious my son, and what is more, 
I suspect you are the first one that has ever made 
the experiment. I will add to your wonder, by 
telling you, that these globules of water never touch 
the cabbage leaf, nor do those large drops that hang 
from the leaves of roses in the green-house touch 
the leaf, although they appear to be attached to 
them. I have examined them carefully, and I find 
that there is a perceptible space between the drop 
and the leaf, and Jenny’s air lines occupy the 
space.” 

This was indeed a curious fact and excited the 
childrens’ attention. What ! a drop of water rolling 
over and over on nothing — suspended in the air 
like a balloon, or like the earth. Their eyes spoke 
volumes, but their tongues had no words to express 
their astonishment. Mrs. Campbell came in — our 
dear Jenny Hart — and the children all flew to her 
with their account of the wonders they had seen 
and heard. 

When Mrs. Campbell was Jenny Hart, and lived 
with Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton in the thread-and- 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


83 


needle store, she had the greatest respect for Mrs. 
Norton, whose name then was Armstrong. Jenny 
Hart always said she was a “ rock of learning,” 
and although no philosopher herself, yet she saw 
that there was a great fuss made about philosophers, 
and so she naturally fell into the habit of respecting 
them. She never dreamed that a drop of water 
was any thing but a drop of water; as to its rolling 
over and over, where was the wonder of that, 
thought she. But her children seemed very happy, 
whilst all this was occupying their minds ; so dear 
Jenny Campbell was happy too. 

“ Oh ! if father were but here,” said Archy ; 
“ and mine,” “ and mine,” said the other little ones. 

“Yes;” said Mrs. Campbell, “and whilst you 
are wishing, dears, why not wish for Hojer Bringle! 
you must never forget to wish for him. To-morrow 
is his birth-day, and we are all to dine with him at 
good grandfather Daly’s. Oh ! there he comes 
with something in his hand ; there they all come.” 

And in came the happy parents of these happy 
children; there stood our old friend Archy Campbell, 
looking with the tenderest love on his still dear 
Jenny Hart; and there were Mr. and Mrs. Alfred 


84 


THE VIOLET. 


Grey, and Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Merry, and old 
Hosea Bringle. Jenny Hart, when but a shop girl 
in Mr. Martin Barton’s thread-and-needle store, 
always used to call him Hojer Bringle, and as she 
called him so still, he was called so by all the people 
of Camperdown. 

“What have you there!” said Mrs. Norton 
to the pleasant tempered old man. 

“ Oh ! only a few drops of quicksilver ; I found 
them in the bulb of the broken thermometer, and so 
I thought it might amuse the children to see them 
rolling about.” 

“ Let us see,” said Archy, “ here is a fine chance 
for us ; I wonder whether such heavy drops as these 
touch ; here, uncle Hojer, put the quicksilver on 
this bit of glass.” 

“ Take care,” said Mrs. Norton, “ take care, or 
you will lose them, for they are the most volatile 
things in the world. I have succeeded now in level- 
ling this glass : stand perfectly still all of you ; grown 
people and all. Now, Jenny Grey, kneel down 
softly and look between the top of the glass and the 
bottom of the drop of quicksilver.” 

“ Oh, dear ! sure enough; there are the air lines, 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 85 

I can count them, one, two, three, four, five, six, 
seven. I can count seven.” 

“ Are some of the lines wider apart 1” said 
Archy ; “ if they are I know something.” 

“ Yes, Archy, some are wider apart, and some 
are thicker. But what is it you know, Archy 1” 

“ Why, if there are always seven lines, then I 
think that each line has a colour of its own. Oh ! 
here comes Mr. Parr and our friend Cyrus Parr ; 
welcome here, most welcome, for you can help us 
through some of our difficulties.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Norton ; “ Mr. Parr has turned 
his attention to natural science, and he will no 
doubt throw some light on the subject.” 

So the children told Mr. Parr and his son Cyrus, 
all about the drops of water, and the prisms, and 
the air lines. He asked Jenny Grej' to look again 
at the drop of quicksilver, and see if she could 
count seven lines. Alas, no ! the little girl only 
saw five ; so Archy was sorry that he had not made 
a discovery. Then Mr. Parr looked through the 
prism, and saw that when he held it horizontally 
the vertical mortar lines of the bricks were seen, 


86 


THE VIOLET. 


but when it was in a vertical position, then the 
horizontal mortar lines were seen. 

“It is as you say,” said Mr. Parr ; “ and I think 
there is a very easy solution to be given. Do you 
not remember our experiment the other night on 
the brass knob of the door. Archy, you and Alfred 
Grey were there ; which of you was it that guessed 
right.” The boys could not tell exactly, but they 
thought it was Cyrus Parr who found out the true 
cause of the phenomenon. 

“How was it!” said Mrs. Norton, who was as 
earnest in these little matters as the youngest of 
them all. 

Mr. Parr td5d them that he had breathed on a 
brass knob which he held in his hand, and whilst 
the knob was still moist with the breath, he passed 
his fingers lightly across it, moving them in a hori- 
zontal direction, and then the rays of light fell on 
the knob vertically. When he breathed on the 
knob again, he passed his hand downward, or in a 
vertical position, and then the rays of light from the 
candle fell in horizontal lines. 

“ I cannot imagine how that can be,” said Letty 
Campbell; “for it seems most natural that when 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


87 


horizontal marks are made, the rays of light should 
find it easier to run in that direction.” 

“ Remember my children,” said Mr. Parr, that 
the brass knob was a ball, and the light only came 
to a focus or point on one spot. Lightly as my 
finger touched it, ridges or inequalities were made 
through the moisture, and it was on the top of these 
ridges that the rays fell. If the ridges go down- 
wards then the light glances across them, but if 
the ridges go across the knob, then the .” 

“Oh, yes!” said Archy, “ I see it now— but I 
beg pardon, dear Mr. Parr, for interrupting you.” 

“ Yes,” said the children, “ we see now.” But as 
Jenny Grey had first discovered the fact, she was 
allowed the pleasure of telling them that the rays 
from the horizontal air lines only gave to the ‘pupil 
of the eye the vertical lines of the mortar between 
the bricks ; and the rays from the vertical air lines 
only show us those of the horizontal stripes of 
mortar. 

Mr. Parr said, that the rays of light came to a 
focus on every ridge that had the power of reflecting 
light ; and when the children asked what the word 
focus meant in the original, he told them that it 


88 


THE VIOLET. 


meant fire place — a spot where the fire centered. 
They all knew that the focus of a burning glass 
was that spot where there was the greatest accu- 
mulation of heat. 

“ The children met here to-day,” said Mrs, 
Norton, “to examine these beautiful moss, cabbage, 
and altar roses ; but the prisms were lying here, 
and so the little rogues seized on them and learned 
a chapter in natural science.” 

“ Natural science, aunt Norton,” said little Willie 
Merry; “how have we been learning natural 
science.” 

“ Why, my little fellow, what do you suppose 
natural science to be? You have all been investi- 
gating some curious natural facts, and have endea- 
voured to find out why it is so — that is, what is 
meant by natural science. Our dear little Jenny 
discovered that the vertical air lines of the prism, 
only showed the horizontal mortar lines, a discovery 
of which any great philosopher might be proud. I 
shall write it all down, and send it to Miss Leslie, 
that she may publish it in her beautiful little souvenir 
called the ‘Violet.’ ” 

Some of the little ones clapped their hands for 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


89 


joy to think of seeing all this in print, and old 
Hosea Bringle was as delighted as the children. 
He said he had never been in a book, and he should 
like to see how his name stood there. 

Mr. Parr smiled and took a book from his pocket. 
“ Look here, uncle Hojer,” said he, “ here we are, 
all down in a book, 1 as well as the rest. Our 
friend Mr. Allen, has written all about us, and the 
book is called Camperdown — there’s for you. I 
came over on purpose to bring it to you. There I 
am at full length, in the ‘ Surprise,’ and there is 
our best of women, Jenny Hart, in the last story, 
called the ‘ Thread-and- needle store.’ ” 

“ Oh, mother ! are you indeed in the book, and 
father and grandfather and grandmother, and uncle 
Hojer, tool” 

“Yes, Mary, all of you,” said Mr. Parr. Then, 
up stepped Betty, the girl that belonged to nobody 
— the girl that was loved by every body — she 
that slept in one house to night, and in another the 
night after — a girl without a home, yet having a 
welcome home in all their hearts. 

“ And if they told all about dear Miss Jenny Hart, 
when she lived in the thread-and-needle store,” 


1 


90 


THE VIOLET. 


said Betty, “ perhaps they may have mentioned my 
name too.” 

“ Yes, Betty, there you are, sure enough, going 
to church in the same carriage with Mr. Martin 
Barton and his wife, when they went to church to 
see their children married.” 

Dear Mrs. Campbell blushed and laughed, and 
her manly, fine looking husband stood by her, looking 
just as fondly on her pleasant face as he did in his 
days of courtship. 

“There is a fine moon to night,” said Mrs. 
Norton ; “ suppose you all drink tea with me. Mr. 
Norton will be home then — is he down in the book 
too, Mr. Parr 1” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Parr ; “ there he is in very 
handsome style I assure you and Mr. Parr cast 
a side glance at Mrs. Campbell, who saw it and 
blushed again. “ You are there, too, Mrs. Norton, 
as a * rock of learning.’ ” 

“ Oh ! that was my word,” said Mrs. Campbell. 
“ I remember telling some one, that Mrs. Armstrong 
was a rock of learning.” 

“ Well, then,” said Mrs. Norton, “the ‘ rock of 
learning’ will expect you all at tea — some thirty 


DROPS OF WATER AND PRISMS. 


91 


or forty we shall be when all together ; and the 
story called the 4 Thread-and-needle store,’ and 
the ‘Surprise,’ shall be read aloud. Here are 
some fine roses for Mrs. Parr, and aunt Martha ; 
pray bring her along, too, Mr. Parr.” 

“ When shall we hear about the roses, aunt 
Norton 1” said modest little Rosa Grey, who had 
seen all and heard all, but was the last to speak. 

“ To-morrow, dear, come all of you to-morrow, 
and bring your pocket lens, for I think you each 
have one. I shall show you some wonderful things, 
depend upon it, when you look at the roses.” 

So aunt Norton gave each of the children a kiss 
and a slice of gingerbread, and off they went ; the 
happiest and the merriest little hearts that were 
ever seen. Old Hosea Bringle staid a few minutes 
after they were all gone ; he'wantcd to chat a little 
with Mrs. Norton, who always was ready to talk 
to him. 

“ 1 have often tried to find out which of the chil- 
dren I like best,” said he ; “but some how or other 
I wander and wander from one to the other, and 
cannot make a choice, till I find myself thinking 


92 


THE VIOLET. 


more and longer about Mrs. Campbell, our dear 
Jenny Hart that was, than any of the rest.” 

“ Yes; but uncle Hojer, she is no child now, you 
know. She is upwards of forty years old.” 

“ Is she 1 dear me ; I thought she was only 
twenty — * how time flies ; it seems only yesterday, 
that she told me I should leave off work and play ’ 
with the two twins — I have done nothing but play 
ever since. I am seventy-five years old to-morrow.” 


New York, 


TINYTELLA. 


93 


TINYTELLA ; 

OB, 

THE [L © M © © t3 Q KI a 

A FAIRY TALE. 

BY MRS. C. GILMAN. 

Alice Somers was an interesting girl, beloved 
by watchful and affectionate parents. She was 
perfectly obedient and very useful. No one was 
more just than Alice in the distributions of the 
store-room, or adroit in the mysteries of the pantry. 
The servants knew that coaxing would gain no 
point with her. Already with ingenuity beyond 
her years, she could cut clothes for her dolls, and 
assist her mother. She had but one fault. That, 
alas ! was a great one. She could not look cheer- 
fully unless she had her own way. While her duties 


94 


THE VIOLET. 


were faithfully performed her bright eyes would be 
clouded, not a smile hovered on her lips, and her 
whole appearance was like that of an overtasked 
slave rather than a happy daughter. 

One day, when Alice was gaily talking over a 
plate of ground-nuts, her mother requested her 
assistance in finishing a wrapper for a sick servant. 
Alice, of course, consented ; but a cloud gathered 
on her brow. She took her work into a corner of 
the room, and commenced sewing as if her life 
depended on every stitch. Mrs. Somers began to 
converse on common topics — Alice was silent. She 
related a laughable anecdote ; not a smile illumi- 
nated Alice’s brow. She asked her some questions; 
monosyllables were the only reply. Tired of this 
unsocial intercourse, her mother withdrew to an- 
other apartment. Still Alice sewed on with a face 
elongated beyond all thought of prettiness ; or, in 
other words, looking sulky. 

Sitting in this uncomfortable state of mind, she 
felt gradually a singular sensation in her chin, and 
on passing her hand over it, it appeared longer than 
usual. She resumed her work, trying to look 
unhappy. Still her chin attracted her, for it cer- 


TINYTELLA. 


95 


tainly was lengthening. She dropped her work 
and felt it with both hands, it pushed itself between 
them. She tried to rise, it was impossible. She 
attempted to call her mother, her voice seemed 
chained. Her chin increased every moment, until 
at length she saw it. What a moment of horror, a 
horror increased by the idea that this was a punish- 
ment for looking unkindly on her parents, and 
teachers! In dreadful alarm and perplexity she 
gazed wildly around her. 

Suddenly she heard a soft fluttering, with delicate 
tinklings like musical wings; and gliding on a sun- 
beam, appeared a minute female figure, which 
floated before her. Her form was chaste and sym- 
metrical as the column of a shell. Her drapery 
was woven from humming-birds’ plumes, and daz- 
zled the eyes of Alice, until they rested on her tiny 
face, fair as a clematis’ blossom peeping from its 
robe of green. At every motion of her wings, a 
thousand little bells, musically tuned, rang out a 
sweet melody; while her feet, white and noiseless as 
the falling petal of a bay flower, kept time in 
graceful transitions to their soft harmony. 

The music ceased, and a voice still sweeter, 


96 


THE VIOLET. 


though piercing as the cicada at summer’s noon, 
addressed poor Alice. 

“ I am Tinytella,” it said, “ the friend of chil- 
dren. I know your misfortune and its cause. 
There is but one cure, — the feeling and smile of 
good humour.” Her bright blue eyes looked full 
in Alice’s face, her little mouth dimpling like the 
water in a rose-vase when it receives flowers. 
Alice smiled. Instantly the frightful deformity 
disappeared, and she heard the bells of Tinytella 
tinkling on the distant air. 


Charleston , S'. C. 


HOPE AND MEMORY. 


97 


M M ® P g AM® Efl S Dffl ® B Y B w 


A young girl lay on the bed of languishment — 
disease had marked her for its victim ; and the pale 
cheek and marble forehead told of suffering and 
despondency. Hope and Memory each occupied 
a station by the pillow of this once gay and thought- 
less being, and each endeavoured to smooth the 
numbered hours of the afflicted one. Memory 
would call her to the review of past pleasures 
graven deeply on the heart, and presented, unmixed 
with its true portion of sorrow, the by-gone days 
of her young life; but she knew it was not, as the 
reality had passed, where mingled the bitter and 
the sweet, in fair proportions. 

Hope on the other hand, held up a bright 
mirror of joys to come. Of renovated health, of 
7 


98 


THE VIOLET. 


future delights unmingled (as delusive Hope fondly 
whispered,) with aught of bitterness in the cup of 
existence. Love, with his smiling eyes and downy 
pinions, stood out in bold relief on the picture, and 
the rosy Pleasures danced with ecstacy in the back- 
ground. These two were crowned by the bea- 
titudes of eternity — for what cannot Hope 
promise 1 


“ Give me,” said the feeble girl ; “ give me even 
in prospect those beautiful visions, and the torn 
tablet of Memory, so long my delight, shall be 
for ever abandoned. What if the scenes of child- 
hood and youth pass from me and return no more 1 ? 
They were born to fade, and already they present 
with their brightest images much that tells of pain 
and of repentance. 

“ But Hope whispers a soft, a soothing tale, for 
she presents to my view the unfading flowers of 
future bliss, no less than the bright joys of a present 
existence. 

“ For though I have so often delighted in Me- 
mory’s gay and vivid portraiture, and clasped to 
my heart the perfection of young and ardent affec- 
tions, has not the traitor Fancy wrought in much 






HOPE AND MEMORY. 


99 


of the fair and bright colouring of the picture, and 
tried all her spells to bind me to her will 1 
“ No ! give me Hope, ever cheering and 
beautiful Hope, and I can even die in the happy 
conviction, that 1 shall again meet those I most 
love.” 

ANONYMOUS. 


100 


THE VIOLET. 


THE 


WHQ'u’S M ® ‘if Mo 


Beware, pretty moth, so unsullied and white, 
Beware of the lamp’s dazzling rays! 

It is not a drop of the sun, but a light 
That shines to allure little rovers by night. 
Away ! there is death in the blaze ! 

O, why didst thou dart from thy covert of 
green, 

The vine round my window so bright, 

And pop in to know what was here to be seen, 
Forsaking thy shield, and escaping thy screen, 
And hazarding life in the flight 1 


THE WHITE MOTH. 


101 


The down on thy limbs and thy bosom so pure 
That flame would most fatally singe; 

And nothing thy beautiful wings can insure 
From ruin and pain beyond mending or cure. 

If caught by their delicate fringe. 

Return, giddy wanderer, safe to the vine, 

And breathe in the free evening air. 

Go cling where the leaves the young tendrils 
entwine, 

At morn as a fair, snowy blossom to shine, 

My soft little eaves-dropper there. 

And then, by a hymn I will sing, thou shalt know 
Why thus I have lifted my arm 
To scare thee away from thy luminous foe, 
That threw out its beams as a snare, by their show 
To win the unwary to harm. 

For I through the day am guarded by One, 
Who, greater and wiser than I, 

Has pitied my frailty, and made me to shun 
Illusive temptations, when I might have run 
The peril of sporting to die. 















THE OLD SOLDIER’S STORY e 


103 


THE 


® [L © © © B, © 0 g 


BY MRS. HALE. 


“Ah! boys, I ne’er would check your pastime; 

Enjoy the soldier’s merry play — 

But ’tis no sport when men are summon’d 
To meet in battle’s stern array. 

“ O ! well the moment I remember, 

When first my sword was girded on, 

I joined the band who fought for freedom, 

Led by our noble Washington. 

“We crossed the Delaware’s broad waters, 

Mid floating ice and drifting snow; 

And, shrouded by the gloom of midnight, 

We marched to meet the haughty foe. 


104 


THE VIOLET. 


“Our troops were hungry, cold and weary, 

And many a bleeding foot was bare ; 

Yet o’er the frozen ground we hurried, 

As swift and light as summer air. 

\ 

“I thought of my dear loving mother, 

The parting kiss my sisters gave; 

And then I thought, ere dawn of morning 
That I might fill a bloody grave. 

“But forward! — not a word was spoken, 

Till on the foe our soldiers fell, 

And then — yet oh ! the din of battle 
No thought can reach, no language tell ! 

“ The cannon booming out like thunder — 

The rolling drum — the trumpet’s call — 
The rush of steeds — the rifle volley, 

Shouts, shrieks, and groans were mingled all. 

“We gained the victory, ay, we conquered, 

For in a righteous cause we stood — 

But many a brave young soldier perished, 

And sealed that triumph with his blood. 


THE OLD SOLDIER’S STORY. 105 

“And there, the morning sun, uprising, 

Shone bright o’er many ghastly forms, — 

On the red ground the dead and dying 

Lay strewn like trees o’erthrown by stones. 

“I lay among them faint and wounded, — 

And see ! a cripple I remain ; 

I ne’er could tell you what I suffered, 

The ling’ring cure, the dreadful pain ! 

“Then never dream that war is pleasure, — 
The conqueror’s glory covet not; — 

And oh! may God preserve our country, 

And save you from the soldier’s lot. 

“The poor worn soldier, old and crippled, 

Say, what to him is gold or fame? 

One prize alone repays his sorrows, 

To bear the freeman’s honoured name. 

“ That prize to gain we fought and suffered, 

To you the prize in peace is given — 

’Tis kept by virtue more than valour, — 

Who spurn man’s sway must bow to heaven. 


106 


THE VIOLET. 


“ Then look above to Christ your Captain, 
March with firm heart and single eye, 
And prove, beneath the Christian banner, 
True soldiers of the Lord on high.” 


Boston. 


EMMA LEE. 


107 


SBSHBiljft ILSS 


AND HER WAXEN DOLL. 


It was a sunny afternoon, 

And little Emma Lee 
Stood idly by the lifted sash 
And look’d impatiently 
Towards the open garden gate, 
Where first she might espy 
Some pleasant little country friends, 
Whose parents liv’d quite nigh. 

“ Mamma ! I cannot think what keeps 
Lucy and Jane so long; 

I’m almost certain that they’ve miss’d 
The road, and gone quite wrong, 


108 


THE VIOLET. 


For only yesterday, they said 
That if the day was clear, 

And all their work and lessons done, 
They surely would be here. 

Just see, mamma,” and as she spoke, 
Young Emma gaz’d around, 

“ Just see how yonder oak-trees cast 
Long shadows on the ground; 

And how the idle butterflies 
Rest, as if tired with play ; 

And there’s a little busy bee, 

That’s taking holiday. 

Oh ! dear, it roves from bush to bush 
As if some one to see, 

Who knows, but what like me, mamma, 
It looks for company : 

Poor thing ! it does not seem to care 
For the blue sky, at aJl, 

Though not a cloud is large enough 
For apron for my doll.” 

“’Tis early yet,” her mother said, 

And knowing that employ 


EMMA LEE. 


109 


Could often, even to herself, 

Afford a sweet alloy, 

She added, “I would thank you, dear, 
To wipe these pens for me, 

. And lay them in my writing-desk: 

How many are they) see!” 

Now Emma was a thoughtful child, 
And dearly lov’d to please, 

So in her little rocking-chair 
She sat, quite at her ease, 

And wip’d each pen, until they look’d 
Clear, as her own sweet face, 

Then laid them neatly, side by side, 
Within their proper place. 

’Twas hardly finish’d, when gay tones 
Of mirth fell on her ear, 

And when she reach’d the outer porch, 
Lucy and Jane were near, 

“ Oh ! have you come 1” she cried aloud 
With such a merry shout, 

One might have heard her happy laugh 
Echo in doors and out. 


110 


THE VIOLET. 


And hardly could young Emma wait, 
Till bonnets were untied, 

But led her little playmates fast 
Unto the parlour side, 

Where in the baby’s cradle lay, 

What seem’d an infant fair, 

With crimson cheeks, and glossy curls, 
And dress both rich and rare. 

Its lids were clos’d as if in sleep, 

But lo ! for their surprise, 

When Emma touch’d a secret spring 
And straight it ope’d its eyes. 

“Its mighty queer,” cried startled Jane 
Quite glowing with delight; 

“ A thing so fine,” said Lucy Gray, 
“Has never met my sight.” 

And on the waxen doll they gaz’d, 

As ’twere a living thing, 

And held it gently, as for fear 
They’d touch the hidden spring; 

Till Emma, glad to see them pleas’d 
Reveal’d the secret wire, 


EMMA LEE. 


Ill 


And then they prest it o’er and o’er, 
She thought they’d never tire. 

Her grandmamma, who liv’d far off, 
Two hundred miles and more, 

Had sent this doll, quite nicely pack’d 
With other precious store, 

In a large Christmas box, well fill’d 
With gifts for girls and boys, 

Shoes, bonnets, books, and a huge heap 
Of sugar plums and toys. 

It was in truth a pretty thing, 

And Jane and Lucy Gray 
Declar’d if such a one was theirs 
They’d play with it all day; 

And when they saw ’twas getting late, 
Though much to their surprise, 

They ran once more to take a peep 
At dolly’s half clos’d eyes. 

Now Emma Lee was very young, 

And she could hardly spell, 

Yet in the language of the face 
Her mind could read right well, 


112 


THE VIOLET. 


And she had mark’d the tearful look, 
With which her playmates, dear, 

Bade farewell to the waxen doll, 

When parting-time drew near. 

So, when her evening tasks were done, 
Though light indeed they were, 

To bring the slippers for papa, 

And set his great arm-chair; 

She took her seat in quietness, 

Close by her sister’s side, 

And looking up into her face, 

Her thoughts she could not hide. 

“I wish I was as big as you,” 

She slowly said at last, 

While o’er her soft and blue-vein’d brow 
A sudden shadow past. 

“Why, Emmy!” ask’d her sister kind, 
Parting her auburn hair, 

“ To be as tall as I am now ! 

Tell me, why would you care!” 

“ Oh ! sister Julia,” and her eye 
Twinkled in such a way, 


EMMA LEE. 


113 


While with a childish gracefulness, 

She wav’d her hands away, 

“ Oh ! sister Julia, how I wish 
That Jane and Lucy Gray 
Had such a dear, good grandmama 
As mine, that’s far away. 

And then they would not have to take 
A carrot for a doll, 

And dress it in a homespun frock, 

Or sometimes, none at all. 

Oh ! me, how glad they’d be to have 
Exactly such an one, 

As once you made for little sis, 

Who tore it up for fun. 

I did not think it ugly then , 

And may-be you will cut 
Two more, akhough you cannot make 
Their eyes to ope and shut. 

And if mamma will only paint 
Their cheeks and lips with red, 

And. ink their eyes, and sew some hair 
Upon each little head, 

8 


114 


THE VIOLET. 


And if you’ll show me how to make 
Two dresses, neat and gay, 

And put bright sashes round their waists, 
Tied in a proper way ; 

I’ll be so glad when morning comes, 

If dear mamma says yes, 

To carry them to Mrs. Gray’s, 

They’ll jump for joy, I guess.” 

“Go then,” said Julia, “bring the trunk 
Which uncle Ben sent you, 

And when you take your thimble out, 
We’ll see what we can do; 

But if you let me have my way 
The dolls shall be one size, 

And then as they can change sometimes, 
We’ll make the clothes with ties.” 

They set to work, and with the aid 
Of their kind mother too, 

Julia soon finish’d both the dolls, 

While Emma chose a new 
And pretty piece of cambric bright, 

With skirts of scarlet crape, 


EMMA LEE. 


115 


And found some ribbon for each sash, 
Then tried a hat to shape. 

“ Do, Emma, have some other frock,” 
Exclaim’d her brother, Miles, 

Who sat with an important air, 

And face too grave for smiles, 

“I do not love to see a doll 
Drest in that foolish way, 

Why, living babies do not wear 
Such fine clothes, any day. 

“Just see how pretty Cary looks 
Asleep in Amy’s lap, 

I like her little gingham frock, 

And simple muslin cap, 

Better than all the silly things 
That give the girls such joy, 

I would not wear such if I could ; 

I’m glad that I’m a boy.” 

“That’s a good notion,” Julia cried, 

“ For dolls of kid or wax, 

But thus to dress this clumsy thing, 
My patience it would tax; 


116 


THE VIOLET. 


For only see, it has no chin 
To hold the cap-strings down, 

And such a shape would never suit 
A little infant’s gown.” 

“ Lucy and Jane would rather have 
Something that makes a show:” 

Said little Emma, “if you please 
Sister! I’ll have it so.” 

Julia agreed, and made each dress 
Quick, for she work’d for love ; 

While Emma quite too full, to talk, 

Stood quiet as a dove. 

They soon were finish’d out and out, 

And then ’twas time for bed, 

But ere the veil of sleep was drawn 
O’er Emma Lee’s young head, 

She kiss’d once more her waxen doll, 

And, in her simple way, 

Pray’d God to bless her grandmamma, 

Who liv’d so far away. 

MARY E. LEE. 


Charleston , S. C. 


ANSWER FROM THE BUSY BEE. 117 


AN 

ANSWER FROM THE BUSY BEE 

TO THE 

SONG- OF THE WILD BEE.* 


BY MRS. M. GRIFFITH. 


Your song 1 — your song — even here in the 

; • 

west, 

Where the towering eagle builds her nest, 
Where the spirit of freedom loves to dwell 
In the house of man, or the honey’d cell. 

Even here your song on the breeze has come, 
And stirred in our hives a lively hum. 

We echoed it back — for the voice of the free 
Always touches the heart-strings of man or bee. 


* Allan Cunningham’s. 


118 


THE VIOLET. 


But soon as the flash of the song had fled, 

And we hung together on waxen bed,* 

Like prudent people we thought it right, 

To examine the dark as well as the light. 

So though we admired you — wild and free, 
The bold Robin Hood of your own countrie — 
We determined to ask, in an humble way, 
Whether you’re always happy and gay. 

And when you nestle on thistle down, 

Or swing in the hare-bell by zephyrs blown, 

Or drink of the dew-drop — silver sheen — 
Glittering at morn on the shamrock green, 
When you list to the laverock, or kiss the rose, 
Or snug on the bunches of thyme repose, 

Don’t you think the cat-bird — sharp and shrill — 
Will swallow you up with right good will. 

Will not the clown — an easy job — 

Tear you in two for the “honey blob.” 

Is there no toad with his mouth wide spread, 
To snap you up as you dine in bed ; 

* Bees never touch the cells : the first row of bees attach 
themselves to some pellets of wax, that are on the ceilings 
of the hive, and all the rest of the bees cling together by 
their feet, all hanging in a bunch. 


ANSWER FROM THE BUSY BEE. 119 


Is there no ground mouse — is there no mole, 
That gropes for your honey hid in the hole; 

Do you fear no boy — for a man don’t care 
For the few little drops that are buried there — 
Who will steal your treasure when you are away, 
Keeping your sunshiny holiday! 

Is there no peasant with heavy tread, 

And a sharp-set plough, to destroy your bed ; 
Are there no freshets to drown your home, 
Bored deep in the clay and garden loam. 

Ah ! these are your fears, though your song is 
free, 

Like the bold Robin Hood of your own countrie. 
So lest your wild lay should the young deceive, 
For who that listens would not believe, 

We shall tell the truth. But suppose we do, 
Not half of these evils are known to you. 

For soon as the chills of winter come, 

You die in your cells— -while we merely grow 
numb. 

Though you have perish’d, the breath of spring 
Thaws our stiff bodies and silken wing. 

We rush from the hive and seek the flower, 
Soon as ’tis wet by an April shower. 


120 


THE VIOLET. 


And when the crocus, with stem so brief, 
Kisses the air with its golden leaf, 

We load our thigh from its fragrant bell, 

And carry it home to our queen bee’s cell. 

We give to others, our honey and wax, 

But we ask no pay — we lay no tax ; 

We own no master, our task is free, 

And blithely we work for our queen bee. 

The food made in summer, our winters cheer, 
And we know each other from year to year; 
But you never labour and have no friends, 

And in one short season your glory ends. 

You glance through the sunbeams, wild and 
free, 

Like the bold Robin Hood of your own countrie. 
But if you’ll come hither and live in hives, 

And see how the American working bee thrives, 
If you’ll help us make honey and build our cell, 
And never entice our hive to rebel, 

If you’ll bear with the evil and take the good, 
We’ll guard you from harm by field and flood. 
But if in the corners you idly lurk, 

And make the bees murmur and quit their 
work, 


ANSWER FROM THE BUSY BEE. 121 

Or if like a sly agitator you come, 

We’ll beat the rogues’ march till we make you 
hum; 

Our laws guard the useful, the quiet and free, 
And punish the turbulent foreign wild bee ; 

Our high mountain tops always glisten in day, 
Niagara for ever thunders down spray; 

Our states are wide spreading and go a head, 
We have silver and gold mines, coal and lead ; 
Our motto is foremost on flag and hall, 

United we stand — divided we fall! 

There is room for the stranger — room for the 
free, 

But none for the savage, none for the wild bee; 
Yet should your brethren get footing here, 

And remain in their wild state all the year, 
Then the beetle with fangs and rough edged 
legs, 

Will burrow down deep and eat their eggs; 

He will drive them out from the hole of earth, 
Which they thought their own from the time of 
birth. 

What does he care that they’re never paid, 
What does he care for a treaty made, 


122 


THE VIOLET. 


He likes the spot that they’ve built upon, 

And that is enough to wish them gone. 

He’ll push them backwards from hole to hole, 
From the sweet green south to the frozen pole. 
And when the Rocky Mountains are past, 

For far beyond they must go at last, 

On the verge of the utmost bounds they’ll stand, 
Claiming no longer a foot of land. 

With a drooping head and folded wing, 

Unable to rally — afraid to sting, 

Like the Indian chief on the ice-bound shore, 
They’ll sing a lament, and be heard no more. 
And this is the fate of the wild, wild bee, 

Once the bold Robin Hood of his own countrie. 


New York. 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


123 


THE 

a Kitp'LL (yj @ 

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON. 


Things, bad begun, make strong themselves by ill. 

Shakespeare. 

She did not, however, see all the difficulties into which 
this first deviation from proper conduct would lead her. 
Alas ! no one ever can ! 

Maria Edgeworth. 

Seldom have three finer boys met together, 
than George Murray, Edward Gray, and Percy 
Harwood. The first was about fifteen years of age 
— and with curling, auburn hair, that setoff to 
great advantage, a fair but florid complexion — was 
what would be called a remarkably handsome boy. 
His face moreover was intelligent, and expressive 
of a most kind and amiable disposition. Nor did 


124 


THE VIOLET. 


it belie him — he really was what he appeared — 
but so careless, indifferent, and thoughtless was 
his nature, that while he had the best wishes for 
every body around him, he would seldom take the 
trouble to consider how he might advantage them, 
or what effect his conduct might have even upon 
himself. He was exceedingly warm and affec- 
tionate, and devotedly attached to Gray, who was 
about one year his junior — a light haired, delicate 
youth, of active mind and good temper, but mainly 
wanting in that decision of character and indepen- 
dence of motive, which enable a boy to act with 
spirit on his own responsibility. Relying thus for 
incentive on others, he was easily led away, and 
the slightest influence of those whom he loved, 
when exerted, had a powerful effect on his conduct. 
He looked upon Murray as his bosom friend, and 
to act by his advice, became with him almost 
habitual — a day seldom passed that they were not 
more or less together. 

Percy Harwood, though about the same age as 
Gray, was unlike either of his companions. He 
had thick black hair — a dark complexion — bright 
eyes — and a countenance, which, while it exhi- 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 125 

bited great animation, was expressive of considerable 
spirit and determination. Yet he was in the main 
a clever boy and well disposed — but unfortunately 
the self-will that predominated in his character, had 
been fostered rather than repressed by a too indul- 
gent mother, and the exercise of his own pleasure, 
was usually expected, and of course allowed. 
Perhaps this very circumstance tended to make 
him popular with his young companions, and the 
presence of Percy Harwood was rarely unaccepta- 
ble, especially to the little trio of which he was a 
member. 

“ What a lovely day,” said Murray, as they met 
one beautiful summer morning. 

“ Delightful, indeed,” answered Harwood ; u it 
is too fine for town — I intend to be off to the 
country right away. 1 have got ma’ to let me 
have the carriage, and am going out to Oscar 
Huntingdon’s — he asked me to come two or three 
weeks ago — and I want you to go with me.” 

“I cannot,” replied Murray. 

“ O nonsense ! but you must,” insisted the other; 
“ what’s the reason you cannot 1” 


“ I have an engagement at home.” 


126 


THE VIOLET. 


“ Well, Ned, you are not engaged at any rate,” 
said Percy, turning to Gray; “ we can do without 
George, since he won’t come — so you will go with 
me.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Gray, hesitatingly ; “ I do 
not think I can.” 

“ Why 1” 

“ I should not like to go without my father’s 
leave.” 

“Pooh!” said Harwood, “we shall be back 
before night, and then you can tell him where you 
have been. But if you wish it, we will go and ask 
him now.” 

“ No,” answered Edward ; “ that would be use- 
less — you will remember this is Sunday, and my 
father will never give his consent that I should go 
on an excursion to-day.” 

“ O, I guess your father would not be very angry 
if you went without leave, and told him afterwards 
— what harm can there be in just going a few miles 
to see a friend 1” 

“ But I don’t know Oscar Huntingdon,” said the 
half-persuaded boy, shifting his ground. 

“O, no matter for that,” replied Harwood; “you 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


127 


will know him in five minutes — he is one of the 
finest fellows in creation, and will be heartily glad 
to see you — so you must go.” 

The matter was now brought to a point for 
Gray to answer definitively, but he could not 
decide — he knew that he ought not to do what was 
urged upon him, but he wanted courage to refuse 
in positive terms. So, as usual, he turned for sup- 
port to his friend Murray, who had been standing 
by all the while in silence. 

“ Will you not go, George 1” 

“No.” 

“ What shall / do?” 

“ I am sure I don’t care — you may do as you 
please — it’s nothing to me.” 

“ O, come along,” interrupted Harwood ; “ what’s 
the use of asking his opinion 1” 

“ Well, Percy, I don’t know,” said Edward ; “ I 
don’t feel quite satisfied about this — but I think 
there can’t be much harm in a little ride, and you 
promise to bring me in before night 1” 

“ Certainly — certainly.” 

“Well, then, here goes — goodbye, George — 
we’ll see you again to-morrow.” 


128 


THE VIOLET. 


“ Good bye,” said Murray ; and they separated. 

Who can fathom the consequences of the first 
trivial step in wrong 1 

The next day, and the day following, and for 
several days after, the boys met as usual, and Gray 
talked much about Oscar Huntingdon, and the 
pleasures of his visit. His father had been much 
displeased, but did not chide him very severely, and 
he thought the enjoyment of the excursion more 
than compensated for the trifling reprimand he had 
received. Murray imagined he perceived, in refer- 
ence to himself, a slight change in his manner — 
he could assign no reason for it, and it might not 
have been apparent to a common observer — but his 
affectionate heart was too sensitive not to discover 
the least tendency towards coldness or neglect on 
the part of his nearest and dearest friend. The 
circumstance, however, reconciled him in a great 
degree to a change which was about to take place 
in his own fortunes. His father had made arrange- 
ments for his admission to a boarding-school at 
a considerable distance, to which in about a fort- 
night after, he took his departure. When he came 
to take leave of Edward Gray, the latter showed 


THE WEIGHT OP INFLUENCE. 


129 


much emotion, but it seemed rather the sorrow of 
a mind unhappy in itself, than the overflowing of a 
virtuous affection. Murray, however, did not 
express the unpleasant suspicions of his friend’s 
coldness — but when he had left him, he went to 
his chamber, and, sitting down among heaps of 
clothes which he was preparing to pack, gave 
relief to his oppressed feelings in a long and bitter 
shower of tears. 

It was several years after the time of which we 
have been speaking, that two young men met in 
the highway of one of our southern cities. The 
one looked stout, hearty, and sunburnt, and was 
arrayed in the heavy accoutrements of a traveller 
— the other wore the lighter garb of a resident, 
and seemed pale and sad, as if sickness had been a 
recent, and not a very brief companion. As they 
approached each other, they both started back in 
surprise. 

“Why, Edward Gray! — am I right? Yes it 
is,” exclaimed the former, stretching out his hand, 
“ who could have dreamed of finding you in this 
far-off region?” 

“ And who could have dreamed,” replied the 
9 


130 


THE VIOLET. 


other, returning his grasp most cordially, “ of 
finding my old friend George Murray, at such a 
distance from his native home 1 But where do you 
stay? O! of course you remain with me while 
you are here — come at once to my lodgings — no 
refusal — I have ample accommodations for you, 
and have a thousand — thousand — thousand things 
to say. There is not a man on earth I am so de- 
lighted to see.” 

“And I am sure,” replied Murray, “that this 
meeting is to me none the less pleasing from being 
so utterly unexpected.” 

“ You look pale, my friend,” continued he, when 
they had reached the house, and were comfortably 
seated in Gray’s apartment; “ I fear your health 
has suffered in this southern climate.” 

Edward burst into tears, and threw himself on 
the bosom of his friend. 

“ 1 have, indeed, dear George,” said he, “ seen 
much sorrow, since we last parted — that parting 
was not as it should have been — but I was under 
evil influence then, and though I used you 
wrongfully, I have never ceased to love you through 
all this long and hopeless separation. But listen 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


131 


to me patiently for a few moments, and I will tell 
you frankly why I am here, and why I am thus — 
alas! who could have supposed that so much 
misery would arise from so slight an aberration ! 

“ You remember the day,” continued he, “ when 
I first went with Percy Harwood to visit Oscar 
Huntingdon — it is from that moment I date all my 
difficulties. Man or boy, I have never met with a 
more perfectly fascinating creature. His form was 
symmetry itself — and his face as entirely beautiful 
as any one could desire. He was about two years 
older than myself, and his mind for one of his age, 
highly polished and cultivated. His manners too, 
were easy and affable in the extreme — kind and 
courteous — not the cold and formal civility of the 
fashionable world, but the sincere and hearty frank- 
ness that said exactly what it meant. Child as I 
then was, and susceptible as you know me, George, 
you need not wonder that I was at once and power- 
fully attracted. How strange that so many good 
and evil qualities, should have been united in the 
same individual ! He was a being whom it was 
indeed hard in human nature to help loving, and 
under the double charm of his beauty and his 


132 


THE VIOLET. 


kindness, I became deeply and devotedly interested 
in all that belonged to him. You know how much 
I talked of — how much I praised him — and I 
sadly fear, my dear George, that in the ardour of 
my love for him, I treated you with most unmerited 
coldness. It was not long after, that you went 
away to boarding-school, and I lost at once your 
friendly counsel and the example of your stronger 
virtue. Since that time, (and I had begun even 
then to reap the bitter fruit of a departure from 
right,) we have never met, and I presume you have 
known little or nothing of my history — for my 
friends were kind enough to throw a veil over my 
enormities — and I am come now, as if to a reli- 
gious confessional, to tell you frankly all the wrong 
I have done to your friendship, and all the wretched- 
ness I have brought upon myself. 

“ After you were gone, you may suppose I was 
more completely under the influence of Huntingdon 
than ever. I had no intimates but him and Percy, 
who was as much wrapped in the spell of his be- 
witching manners as myself. In our leisure 
moments we were almost constantly together. We 
walked—- rode — and had all our amusements in 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


133 


common. I was a little shocked to hear an oath 
occasionally fall from Oscar — I had not noticed it 
at first, and it now occurred but seldom. At length, 
however, Percy began to indulge in the same kind 
of language — I really felt grieved for his sake — 
and endeavoured to dissuade him from acquiring so 
bad a habit — but he only laughed at me, and made 
me feel ashamed of my own virtuous abhorrence. 
I said no more on the subject, and soon became so 
accustomed to hearing their profanity, that at length 
I ventured upon the occasional use of it myself. I 
was absolutely frightened the first time 1 suffered 
an oath to escape me ; it was so adverse to every 
thing I had been taught in my early childhood, so 
opposed to all those pious feelings I had imbibed 
with my first ideas, that it seemed like the rending 
of something holy, or the destruction of some pure 
thing that belonged to heaven ! You may be sure, 
that these thoughts were not agreeable, and of 
course were speedily dismissed — with every indul- 
gence they grew weaker and weaker — till at 
length we all became most expert and proficient 
swearers. 

“ Our habits were in no wise improved by the 


134 


THE VIOLET. 


introduction to our circle of a lad of the name of 
John Williams. He was a w ild; turbulent boy — 
fond of all kind of mischief — and ever ready to 
lead in any thing that bore the name of fun and 
frolic. We often met at his father’s house, where 
he seemed to have unlimited license to do as he 
pleased. We had our cigars and our wine — and 
we smoked and drank like ‘ children of a larger 
growth,’ until we were fast acquiring a habit of 
drinking — I will not call it a taste, for I believe 
after all it afforded but little enjoyment to any of 
us. 

“ One evening when we were thus engaged, 
Williams threw on the table a pack of cards, and 
proposed that we should play. I felt sorry to see 
them introduced — for I had always been taught to 
avoid cards, not so much from any intrinsic mischief 
they possess, as from the greater evils to which 
they are calculated to lead. I was ashamed, 
however, to plead this as my excuse, and therefore 
endeavoured to find shelter under my ignorance. 

“ ‘ O, that’s nothing,’ said Williams ; ‘ we’ll 
teach you in five minutes. Here’s four of us — 
just enough for a rubber of whist — come, you 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE 


135 


shall have Oscar for your partner, and before 
you’ve played three games, you’ll know all about 
it.’ 

“ ‘ But,’ said I, (for although I thus found my- 
self over-ruled in my first objection, I still felt un- 
comfortable in beginning) — ‘ but indeed I do not 
like to play, for I know my father would object to 
it.’ 

“ At this the whole party burst into a loud fit of 
laughter. 

“ ‘ Why, Ned Gray,’ said Williams, ‘ are you 
such a baby as to talk to us about your father — 
Ar’n’t you old enough to know one thing from 
another, without asking your father 1 Poh ! poh ! 
man ! don’t make a fool of yourself, but sit down 
and take a hand.’ 

“ ‘ Well, I don’t like it,’ said I. 

“ ‘O, my dear Edward,’ whispered the persuasive 
Oscar; ‘there can be no harm in a little social 
game like this, merely for amusement — besides, 
you see we can’t do without you, and you certainly 
will not mar the pleasure of the evening.’ 

“Thus importuned, I said no more — but sat 
down and took the cards — and thus began my 


136 


THE VIOLET. 


taste for gambling. I was soon initiated into the 
secrets of the game, and began to be deeply inter- 
ested. I found the excitement exceedingly fasci- 
nating, and wondered how I could have objected to 
play. Nothing was said about stakes, and the 
evening passed so agreeably, that I longed for the 
time when we should meet again to renew our 
delightful amusement. 

“In the midst of all this gaiety and youthful 
dissipation, do you suppose I was happy 1 Far 
otherwise. The secret consciousness of wrong — 
the sense of departed innocence were constantly 
gnawing at my heart. My parents continued as 
ever kind and affectionate — they often gave me 
good advice — and I believe my father half sus- 
pected that things were not quite right with me. 
But he never hinted his suspicions, and I drove 
onward in the road to ruin. 

“ At length we began to play for money — but 
our stakes were at first small. In the course of 
time, however, they increased, till at last we be- 
came, for our years, bold and desperate gamblers. 
Huntingdon and Harwood had a liberal allowance 
of pocket money — and Williams seemed generally 




THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 137 









flush of funds — how he obtained them, I never 
could fairly discover. My own means were ex- 
tremely limited — what I got from my father was 
exceedingly small, and I was receiving a trifling 
salary from Mr. Foster, in whose counting-house I 
was at that time employed. You may judge then 
of my horror and utter consternation, when at the 
end of an evening’s play, I found myself minus to 
the amount of fifty dollars. 

“ What was I to do 1 I had not so much money 
in the world — I could not go to my father, tell him 
all the circumstances, and ask him to assist me — 
for that would involve an exposure of my ruinous 
ways — No — there seemed but one thing forme 
to do, and that was to goon! — Alas! when we 
have entered deeply into wrong, how hard it is to 
retrace our steps ! 

“ I did go on — I played more deeply and despe- 
rately than ever — I hazarded every thing. Whe- 
ther the agitating circumstances of the case 
affected my judgment, I cannot determine, but 
through all the game I was constantly a loser. 
Still I was buoyed up with the expectation of ulti- 
mate success — hoping almost against hope, that 


138 


THE VIOLET. 


fortune would at last take a turn, and that I should 
be able to recover the ground that I had lost. Still 
it was in vain — I only went deeper, to become 
more involved — till finding the chase entirely 
hopeless, I relinquished the pursuit — coming out 
from the desperate contest, what I then considered 
equivalent to utter ruin, a debtor to my friend 
Huntingdon, to the amount of three hundred 
dollars. 

“ I now began to look about me despairingly, to 
see if there was any possible means by which I 
might obtain the money for the payment of this 
sum. It appeared impracticable — I knew no one 
of whom I could borrow such an amount, and to 
become possessed of it in any other way, seemed 
out of the question. A dark suggestion presented 
itself to my mind, and seemed at once to occupy 
my thought. Huntingdon saw that I was distressed, 
but did not guess the real cause. He came to me 
nobly and generously, and told me to make myself 
perfectly easy about the business — that he knew 
how I was circumstanced, and should certainly 
never urge his claim. ‘ And to convince you that 
I am sincere, my dear Ned,’ said he, ‘ here is the 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


139 


note you gave me, which I thus tear into a thou- 
sand pieces, and declare the whole matter to be 
now settled and ended. So let’s shake hands and 
be done with it for ever.’ 

‘“My dear Oscar,’ I replied; ‘I am not insen- 
sible to your generous feelings — I thank you from 
the bottom of my heart — but you will excuse me 
if I cannot accept your clemency. This is a matter 
of honour, and I have some pride in its fulfilment 
. — you have always paid your losses nobly, and I 
insist upon being allowed to do the same by 
mine.’ 

“‘Well — well,’ said he; ‘I don’t wish to 
offend you — but give yourself no trouble about it 
— it will do any time these ten years.’ 

“‘You shall have it in less than one,’ said 1 — 
and I had almost determined how it should be 
done. 

“ What strange infatuation ! that for the purpose 
of avoiding the imputation of what I deemed a 
dishonourable action, I should have rushed headlong 
into one a thousand times more criminal — a thou- 
sand times more degrading ! But such is the mise- 
rable sophistry of wrong-doing. 


140 


/ 


THE VIOLET. 


“My purpose was not accomplished without 
much compunction. I saw — I knew — I felt the 
enormity of the act I was about to commit — but, 
goaded on by my ridiculous notions of false honour, 
it seemed to be the only way by which I could 
escape the contempt of my companions. I stifled 
the monitor in my own breast, and went to my 
unhallowed work. I was a good penman, and was 
so familiar with Mr. Foster’s writing, that it was 
no very difficult matter for me to imitate his signa- 
ture. I forged his name on a blank check, filled it 
up with the amount required, presented it to his 
banker, and obtained the money. I flew imme- 
diately to Huntingdon, and paid it over into his 
hands — he seemed surprised, but said nothing, as 
I suppose he feared again to offend me — but there 
was something in his look that implied a suspicion, 
which I felt, alas ! that I too truly deserved. It was 
a singular infatuation, that amidst all the workings 
of my mind in this plan of wickedness, I had never 
once dreamed of the hazard of detection. Now, 
however, I began to perceive that it must inevitably 
be discovered, and I waited in anxious trepidation 
for the expected disclosure. I did not wait long — 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


141 


it was soon ascertained that a deficiency existed in 
my employer’s account — it was traced to the 
forged check — my writing was recognized — and 
the whole affair stood fully exposed. I cannot 
dwell on what followed — the recollection is too 
painful. My poor mother was half distracted — 
and my father in the anguish of his sorrow, wore 
such a look of disappointed expectation, that I have 
never forgotten it to this day. * 0, my poor ruined 
boy,’ he would say, ‘ this will go nigh to break our 
hearts.’ Mr. Foster was a good man, and he saw 
that a public exposure would destroy my reputation 
and perhaps cause my ruin. It was, therefore, 
agreed that the thing should be kept quiet, and that 
I should be disposed of in some distant place. A 
situation was procured me, and I was accordingly 
sent hither — expatriated by my own folly, and left 
solitary and friendless in a strange land, with the 
galling sense of guilt and shame hanging for ever 
about me. My naturally delicate frame could not 
stand the shock — I fell exceedingly ill, and for a 
long time despaired of my existence. In the view 
of eternity, I was induced to think of my past 
offences, and I thank God it was not unavailing. I 


142 


THE VIOLET. 


resolved, by his help, in all the future, ‘ to cleanse 
my ways by giving heed thereunto according to his 
word.’ With returning health, I set about fulfilling 
my resolve, and have endeavoured as far as possible 
to atone for my youthful errors. My life has been 
very solitary and retired — and attended by fre- 
quent spells of indisposition, from one of which I 
have now scarcely recovered. Here my sorrows 
are all my own — and you cannot conceive the 
satisfaction it affords me to have the opportunity of 
unburthening my soul to one who can understand 
and truly sympathise with my feelings. Much as 
I have suffered (and it is even less than I have de- 
served,) I can now rejoice that so speedy a termi- 
nation was thus put to my career of vice — and I 
should doubly rejoice if I did but know one thing 
— Iam almost afraid to ask you the question — 
how is it with my friends 1” 

“ O cheerily, my dear Ned,” answered Murray; 
“ I believe I can bring you a good report. Oscar is 
now my friend as well as yours — and I can 
heartily agree with you in all you have said about 
the fascination of his manners — but it is now the 
fascination of virtue. I think he must have known 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


143 


more of the cause of your departure than he has 
ever communicated to me — for sinpe your absence, 
a very great change has taken place both in him 
and Percy — they have entirely abandoned their 
evil habits, and are now models for the youth of 
their age. They both speak of you with the 
greatest affection, and would be delighted to give 
you a better proof of their friendship, than when, 
as they now say, they led you to the commission of 
wrong.” 

“ I am rejoiced to hear of their welfare,” replied 
Gray — “but what has become of Williams!” 

“ I believe I can scarcely tell you,” said Murray 
— “but I fear poor Jack is not doing so well as 
his friends could desire — he and the other boys are 
now of different minds and they seldom meet.” 

“ Alas ! poor Williams !” ejaculated Gray. — 
“ And now, dear George, allow me in concluding 
my tedious history to say one word to you — not by 
way of reproach, for I have no such feeling — but 
merely as a matter of future caution. Do you 
remember on the day that Harwood was urging me 
to accompany him to Huntingdon’s, and when I was 
hesitating about doing what I knew to be wrong, 


144 


THE VIOLET. 


that I turned to you, and asked you how I should 
act!” 

“ I do.” 

“ And do you remember the answer you gave 
me!” 

“ I really do not.” 

“ You turned carelessly away and said it was 
nothing to you — I might do as I pleased. That 
answer decided me — I went — I became acquaint- 
ed with Huntingdon, and afterwards through him 
with Williams — and was by that visit initiated into 
that career of vice which has had to me so sad and 
so costly a result. When I asked you whether I 
should do wrong, had you said decidedly, No ! it is 
impossible to conjecture how much of all the 
misery I have since suffered I might have been 
spared.” 

“Edward, I am humbled to think that I have 
been the cause of so much wretchedness. Never 
till this moment did I imagine that I was responsible 
for so large a portion of the hazard you have run 
and the anguish you have endured.” 

“Nay, my dear Murray,” answered Gray; “I 
do not accuse you — freely and from my heart do I 


THE WEIGHT OF INFLUENCE. 


145 


acquit you of all intentional wrong — but, oh! 
how careful should we be in the exercise of our 
influence, when a single word may turn the scale 
which is to decide for good or for evil, the character 
of a fellow-being, or even to bear with a weight 
we little consider on the nature of his eternal 
destiny.” 


Philadelphia. 


10 


146 


THE VIOLET. 


THE 

WQ®@W ® P © A B S P c u a Aa 

A SACRED DRAMA. 


Translated by Miss Leslie, from the French of 
MADAME DE GENLIS. 


CHARACTERS. 

The Prophet Elijah. 

The Widow. 

The Child. 

The scene is in the country of Sidon , near the 
town of Sarepta. It represents the outside of a 
cottage, with a bench of turf near the door , 
shaded by a large old tree; under which the 
Widow is seated at her spinning, with her Child 
beside her. A forest is on one side. She fixes 

her eyes earnestly on the boy, and then says to 
herself — 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 147 

Poor child! how pale and dejected he looks! 
{Aloud.) My son, do you not perceive that the air 
this morning is fresher than usual, and the sky 
more bright and clear! 

Child. — It is painful for me to breathe ; and 
already the sun seems burning hot. 

Widow. — Will you take a little walk in the 
forest ! 

Child. — I have no longer strength to walk. 

Widow. — ( To herself.) Alas ! 

Child. — Mother, when shall I again see the 
green grass and the beautiful flowers! When will 
the birds sing again ! 

Widow. — This is the season of spring; but 
the song of the birds is heard no more. The trees 
have lost all their leaves, which have dried up and 
fallen in dust on the withered grass. The rivulets 
and the fountains flow no longer. There is neither 
shade nor coolness in the forests ; the dew and the 
rain no longer refresh the earth. The plants, the 
grain, the animals, and the people, all languish and 
seem about to perish. How long have we suffered 
under these evils ! All nature seems changed, and 
we are at once deprived of plenty and of health. 


148 


THE VIOLET. 


Child. — Then, mother, I shall never again see 
the spring 1 

Widow (embracing him , with tears). — Oh ! my 
son ! 

Child. — I cannot but think of the happy times 
when the trees were so green and the meadows so 
beautiful — I shall never forget that fountain that 
sprung from the mossy rock ; it was there, behind 
our cottage ; but the water has disappeared. The 
rock still remains, and it makes me feel sad to look 
at it. And the flowers that I gathered with so 
much pleasure — and our vine, now dead and useless, 
and our sheep . 

Widow. — Alas, dear child! you are already 
familiar with sorrows which at your age are seldom 
known; mournful recollections, and hopeless suffer- 
ings. 

Child. — My greatest sorrow is when I remem- 
ber that you were once surrounded by women, who 
worked with you, and waited on you. — And now 
you are alone. 

Widow. — Am I not with you? And are you 
not every thing to your mother! 

Child. — If I were only able to assist you, to 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 


149 


work for you ! I am old enough, but I have no 
strength . 

Widow. — Ah ! you grieve at my lot, and you 
are yourself the only object of my anxiety. Oh ! 
my child ! how happy I could yet be if Heaven 
would deign to restore you to health. 

Child. — You weep — I see that you have no 
hope of my ever getting well. 

Widow. — Oh! say not so? If I had lost all 
hope of your recovery, how could I support my own 
life? 

Child. — But indeed I am very ill. If you 
could have me carried to the town, I would gladly 
go to the temple of Baal and pray with you before 
the images of our gods. 

Widow. — The images of the idols! — Ah! I 
have ceased to revere them ; I have long since 
acknowledged the errors of the worship of Baal. 
Our religion does not inspire virtue, but it connives 
at, and encourages vice. Be assured, my child, 
that our priests are impostors, and that the gods 
they have taught us to adore, are false. 

Child. — To whom then shall we address our 
prayers ? 


150 


THE VIOLET. 


Widow. — To Him who created the universe. 

Child. — And how shall we know his law 1 

Widow. — He himself has taken care to engrave 
it on our hearts, by inspiring us with a love of good, 
and a horror of evil ; to follow the dictates of con- 
science is to obey him. 

Child. — And have the Sidonians offended 
him 1 

Widow. — They have too well deserved his 
anger by their numerous crimes, and by their bar- 
barous and bloody sacrifices. This terrible drought 
which desolates the whole country: sickness, 
famine, and all the unusual evils that now oppress 
us, are undoubtedly the infliction of his justice on 
a sinful people. It is said, that the first cause of 
our misfortunes sprang from the union of Jezebel, 
the daughter of our sovereign, with Ahab, the 
king of the Hebrews. She has introduced into her 
new dominions the worship of idols, and it is since 
that fatal time that all these calamities have be- 
fallen us. 

Child. — Then the gods of the Hebrews are 
angry with us 7 

Widow. — This stranger nation adores but one 


THE WIDOW OF SAREFTA. 151 

God. They say that they have received from him 
sacred commandments, beneficent precepts, and 
pure and equitable laws. Ah ! when this God is 
so good, why should he not be ours 1 

Child. — Mother, do you hear how the wind is 
rising! And still, how hot and oppressive is the 
air. What whirlwinds of dust. — 

Widow. — A terrible storm is coming on; we 
must go into the house. 

Child. — The wind increases — the sky darkens ! 

Widow. — No time is to be lost. — My son rise 
and lean on my arm. 

Child. — I feel as if I could not support myself 
on my feet. 

Widow {trying in vain to lift him in her arms). 
— Ah ! I am so weakened by famine, that I have 
not strength to carry you. 

Child. — Do not distress yourself, dear mother, 
I feel better now. I think I can walk into our 
cottage. 

Widow {supporting him). — Come then, beloved 
child. 

Child {walking slowly and leaning on his mo- 
ther). — What a dreadful tempest. The branches 


152 


THE VIOLET. 


are broken, and the trees are torn up by the 
roots. 

Widow. — Let us make haste. 

Child (stopping). — Listen. I think I hear 
groans. 

Widow. — Yes — they seem to come from the 
woods. 

Child. — Some one must be in need of help. Go, 
dear mother, go and see. 

Widow. — I cannot leave you now. I will go 
to the forest when I have led you into the cottage. 

Child. — Then let us walk fast. And do not 
return from the woods till you have found the 
person that is suffering. I feel myself better — 
I want nothing but rest, and I will lie down and 
try to sleep while you are absent. 

Widow. — Oh ! may your slumber be sweet and 
refreshing (She embraces him and conducts him 
into the cottage , shutting the door as they go in. 
After she has laid him on his bed , she comes out 
again). 


[The Widow, alone.'] 


Beloved child ! how miserable your sickness 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 153 

makes me ( she goes toioards the forest). The wind 
has fallen and the sky begins to clear. I no longer 
hear those plaintive sounds which seemed to implore 
assistance. However, I am sure it was no illusion. 
My own sufferings have made my ears open to the 
slightest tones of complaint ( she goes into the 
forest , and after awhile returns ). I can discover 
nothing ; I will go back to my son. Oh ! if he is 
sleeping calmly, what happiness I shall have in 
looking at him — I will take my spinning and sit 
by his bedside. But no — the noise of my distaff 
may disturb him. I will gaze at him, and indulge 
myself by letting my tears flow unrestrained ; I 
can weep in silence — But again I hear a voice. 
It is the same sound that I listened to with my son 
( She turns back and approaches the forest ). — 
Some one is coming. It is a venerable old man. 
He seems faint and weary, and looks as if he had 
suffered much. — How shall I assist him ! 

[Elijah enters , leaning on the branch of a tree to 
support his steps.] 


Elijah. — Where am 1 ? — what place is this! 
Widow. — You are in the country of the Sido- 


154 


THE VIOLET. 


nians, and near the town of Sarepta. You seem 
overcome with fatigue ; rest yourself in my cottage. 

Elijah. — Who are you 1 

Widow. — I am a widow, I have but one child, 
and I live by the labour of my hands. I have 
known abundance and happiness ; I made not a bad 
use of my wealth ; and I have lost it without yield- 
ing to despair. 

Elijah. — How has your lot been changed 1 By 
what events ! 

Widow. — By the calamities under which the 
whole country is suffering. The earth, no longer 
moistened by the rain and dew, has become barren, 
and will produce nothing. All works of agriculture 
have long since been given up as useless; and 
famine, the most terrible of scourges, has reduced 
all ranks and classes to a sad equality. The rich 
have given all their wealth to procure food, and 
now they suffer with the poor. 

Elijah. — Inscrutable are the decrees of Heaven. 
But rely on the mercy of the God of Abraham, and 
of -Jacob ; and be assured that the sufferings with 
which he has chosen to afflict your nation for a 
time, will at length be dispelled by his goodness. 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 


155 


Widow. — Ah ! it is the true God of whom you 
speak. It is Him that I wish to adore. Stranger, 
do you know him'! — But you seem not to hear me 
— your countenance changes. 

Elijah. — • My strength forsakes me — fatigue — 
hunger — thirst — . 

Widow. — Alas ! I have nothing but a little oil 
in a cruse, and a handful of meal in the bottom of a 
barrel, which I am saving to make a cake for my 
son ; and a little water which I am keeping also for 
him. 

Elijah. — Has your son passed two days without 
tasting food 1 

Widow ( speaking to herself and looking at 
Elijah , who sinks on the turf-seat near the cot- 
tage'). — How pale he is — he can no longer support 
himself. No — I cannot let him perish. The 
thread that I have spun, I intended to sell to-mor- 
row, when I should have more of it in readiness. 
But I will carry what I have to Sarepta this even- 
ing, and try to exchange it for some food. And 
to-night I will not go to bed — I will sit up and 
spin till day-light. But if my son should complain 


156 


THE VIOLET. 


of hunger when he awakens. — Ah ! how my 
heart is torn. 

Elijah. — Have compassion on my sufferings. 
It is in your power to save my life. Grant me your 
assistance. 

Widow. — Oh ! who could resist such an appeal 

— I will hesitate no longer. Come with me unfor- 
tunate old man — I will give you all the food that 
I have, and there is still a little water in the vase. 

Elijah. — I am too much exhausted to move 
from this place. Go — I will wait for you here (he 
leans against the tree). , 

Widow ( going into the cottage). — I will return 
very soon. 

Elijah (alone). — And this woman is a Sidonian 

— an idolatress — or at least brought up as such. 
Still how good are her feelings — how kind is her 
heart — I will invoke a blessing on her hospitable 
roof. But what do I hear (The widow shrieks 
within the cottage , exclaiming ), “ My son ! Oh ! 
my son !” 

Elijah. — What has happened 1 

[ The Widow runs out of the cottage, pale and in 
tears.'] 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 157 

Widow. — He is dead. — All is over — I have 
lost him for ever. — My son — my son (she throws 
herself on the hank of turf). 

Elijah. — Your son is dead ! 

Widow. — Unfortunate stranger, it was you that 
detained me from him — I was not there to receive 
his last sigh ! — My son — But I will go and look 
at him again — I will die beside him. 

Elijah. — Stay, unhappy mother — Listen to 
me. A miraculous power has suddenly restored to 
me all my strength. Oh ! desolate parent, acknow- 
ledge and invoke with me, the God of Israel. 

Widow. — I do — I do (falling on her knees). 

Elijah (after having remained some time in 
prayer). — Hope every thing — and do not follow 
me. (He enters the cottage.) 

W idow. — He tells me to hope. — To hope when 
my son is dead — when I have just seen him stretch- 
ed out, pale, breathless, motionless — Ha ! what 
sound is that 1 (listening eagerly) It is his voice. 
It is himself (she flies to the door). 


[Elijah comes out of the cottage leading the Child 
by the hand.] 


158 


THE VIOLET. 


Widow. — My son ! 

The Child ( throwing himself into the arms of 
the Widow). — Oh ! my mother ! 

Widow. — You breathe, you move, you speak — 
I see you, and I clasp you in my arms. (She looks 
earnestly at him.) It is really he — It is my son — 
But, oh ! how altered. — His eyes sparkle, and 
health blooms upon his cheek. ( She throws herself 
on her knees before Elijah, who raises her imme- 
diately.) Holy man ! minister of the Being whose 
beneficence your lips have proclaimed, you have 
proved to me that the divinity you serve is the one 
that I have sought, and that I adored even in the 
midst of idolatry. Instruct me; enlighten me — 
tell me what homage shall I render him. 

Elijah. — The homage that is most pleasing to 
him. — The gratitude of a heart like yours. 

Widow. — And you, will you always be my 
tutelary genius 1 

Elijah. — lam but a weak mortal. Persecuted 
by a cruel king, and an impious queen, I have 
taken refuge in the wilderness. The hand of the 
All-powerful has conducted me to you. He willed 
that Elijah should have the glory of withdrawing 


THE WIDOW OF SAREPTA. 


159 


from the errors of idolatry, a heart formed for 
goodness and truth. The crimes of a wicked 
people have drawn on them their punishment ; but 
the Father of all mercies, knows how to protect 
and to reward innocence and virtue. I feel myself 
empowered to say, that your trials are now over. 
Your son is restored to you with renovated health 
and strength. And by divine inspiration, I can 
effect another miracle in your behalf. The vessels 
which contain the remnant of meal, of oil, and of 
water, which you were saving for your child, and 
which you would generously have bestowed upon 
me, those vessels are now full, and will continue 
so as long as the famine and the drought shall last 
Thus they will furnish subsistence to yourself and 
your son, and to all that come to implore your 
assistance. 

Widow. — Oh ! what felicity can now be com- 
pared with mine. 

Elijah. — And your happiness shall continue 
during your life. Your story will not perish with 
you, for it will be inscribed in a book which will 
carry it down as an example, to the remotest ages 
of futurity. 


160 


THE VIOLET. 


LINES 


mV A IBtLflKI® ©QBCL 


Where is my much lov’d mother gone 
She is numbered with the dead — 
But, oh ! I trust to worlds of light 
Her happy spirit’s fled. 

That voice that used to speak so kind, 
Will speak on earth no more, 

She sings the praises of her King 
On Zion’s blissful shore. 

She dwells within the sacred place, 
Where love and pleasure reign, 

Her sorrows now have fled away, 

She ne’er will weep again. 


LINES BY A BLIND GIRL. 


161 


These lines were recited by Mary Smith, a blind 
girl, composed by herself on the death of her 
mother — and repeated with so much feeling as to 
draw tears from all who heard her — she was about 
twelve years old. 


ANONYMOUS. 


11 


162 


THE VIOLET. 


THE 




BY W. B. TAPPAN. 

Happy sister! happy brother! 

All the world unto each other 
Seem they at their simple meal ; 
What can purer peace reveal! 

He has boyhood’s earnestness, 

She has girlish artlessness; — 

And to share their supper, see ! 

Dick is begging wistfully. 

Look demure, intreating eye, 

Lifted paw, as plainly tell. 

As a dog can utter, “ I 
Am a friend that serves you well. 



\ 








THE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 


163 


Am I not, the lonesome night, 
Wakeful for you when you sleep! 
If the robber comes, a bite 
Bids him safer distance keep. 

And I toil the winter’s day, 

And for you, the summer. Pray 
Who so patient at your side 
When you walk and when you ride! 
Who your dinner takes at noon 
To the school-house in the lane, 
Touching neither cloth nor spoon — 
And the basket back again, 
Emptied, to your mother brings! 

In a thousand little things, 

In a thousand little ways, 

For a word or look of praise, 

Dick is daily showing you 

Dogs are faithful, and he begs, 
Humbly on his hinder legs — 

For a taste of supper too.” 

Happy sister ! happy brother ! 

Friendship is a word of art 
Spelt not by ye — each for other 
Knows it truly in the heart. 


164 


THE VIOLET. 


That it yields a generous pleasure 
Selfish man can ne’er dispute, 
When he sees the priceless treasure 
Shared with the deserving brute. 


Philadelphia , 1837. 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 


165 


THE 


K! g g & 


BY MISS LESLIE. 


It was New Year’s morning 1718, and, to do 
honour to the holiday, the breakfast-table had been 
set in the best parlour belonging to the establish- 
ment of Mr. Clarke, a wealthy merchant of Boston, 
whose residence in the North Square was at 
that period considered the most elegant private 
mansion in the town. The weather was severely 
cold. An immense fire of huge logs (supported on 
extremely tall brass andirons, and brought far out 
on the hearth) tinted with its ruddy glow the beau- 
tiful carving of fruit and flowers that decorated the 
chimney-piece, and brightened the vivid pictures 


166 


THE VIOLET. 


which were painted on every panel of the wainscot. 
As the season was winter, the chief beauties of the 
tesselated floor (particularly the family coat of arms 
in the centre) were concealed under a square 
Turkey carpet ; but round the outside of its edges 
a small uncovered space gave evidence of the 
infinite variety of the woods, and the taste and 
ingenuity of their general arrangement. The 
window seats and chairs were cushioned with 
velvet, corresponding with the curtains. Large 
oval looking-glasses, (the frames carved in foliage) 
inclined forward from the walls. Through the glass 
doors of the closets or beaufets that occupied the 
recesses, were seen on one side pyramids of India 
china arrayed in regular order, and at the other 
side was a rich display of silver plate, on every 
article of which was engraved the crowned swan, 
the ancient crest of the Clarkes; for in those days 
few Americans who derived from their European 
ancestors any claim to armorial bearings were never 
remiss in setting forth the distinction. 

When Mr. Clarke came down to breakfast, he 
had a handsome new cane in his hand, and was 
followed by a servant carrying a large covered 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 167 

basket, the sight of which excited much curiosity 
in his son Harry, and also in George and Lucy 
Ellis — two children who were on a visit at the 
house ; their own parents having gone to Salem. 

They were not long in suspense, for Mr. Clarke 
informed them that the basket contained New- 
Year’s Gifts; and he immediately proceeded to 
distribute them. To Mrs. Clarke he presented a 
superb muff of black velvet, embroidered with gold, 
and decorated on one side with her initials in pearls; 
to little Lucy he gave a large French doll, richly 
dressed ; to her brother George the abovementioned 
cane, which was finely clouded, and had a gold top 
and gold cord and tassels, — George having fre- 
quently expressed a wish for such a one. 

“ Now,” said George — who was very vain and 
foppish, “ I can say that not a boy in Boston carries 
a cane equal to mine. If my mother would only 
consent to my wearing a wig, I know no one that 
could come up to me in what she calls the true 
look of real fashion.” 

“ Indeed,” said Mr. Clarke, “ I must agree with 
my friend, your mother, in thinking that nothing is 
so becoming to a boy as his own hair. However 


168 


THE VIOLET. 


fashionable wigs may be, I have not yet seen a 
single child that looked well in one.” 

“So I think,” exclaimed Harry; “and for my 
part, I would not for a hundred guineas be encum- 
bered with a wig. I hate every thing that is 
inconvenient — and that was the reason I took my 
penknife yesterday, and cut away all the buckram 
lining from the skirt of my new coat. Why, it 
stood out like a shelf all round me !” 

“ And for my part,” said George Ellis, “ I would 
not abate one inch of my buckram for the world.” 

“ Well, dear father,” said Harry, “ you seem in 
no haste to show me my New-Year’s gift.” 

Mr. Clarke presented his son with an elegant 
set of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. — 
Harry received the books with proper respect ; but 
his countenance did not brighten ; and, in fact, he 
looked a little disappointed. 

“You do not seem particularly delighted with 
my present,” observed Mr. Clarke ; — “I must con- 
fess 1 feared as much.” 

“ Dear father,” replied Harry, “ I have already 
so many books — to tell the truth, I hoped you 
would have given me a pair of skates.” 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 169 

“ Harry,” said his mother, “ I have always refused 
my consent to your having skates. — Think of 
Edward Warren, who while skating on Charles 
River, broke through the ice, and was drowned.” 

“ It has given me much pain, Harry,” said Mr. 
Clarke, “ to perceive that, with numerous good 
qualities, and with an understanding by no means 
of an inferior order, you seem to have an innate 
disrelish for books, and for every thing that can only 
be acquired by study. I have determined to indulge 
you for a time in reading works of fiction exclu- 
sively, in the hope that they may awaken in you a 
desire for literature of a more important description. 
I would rather see you passionately fond of the most 
extravagant story-books, than witness, as I do con- 
tinually, your strange disinclination for all books 
whatever. I think if any thing like reading can 
possibly engage your attention, it will certainly be 
rivetted by these very amusing tales, with their 
faithful delineations of Oriental manners. They 
are really of Eastern origin; and these identical 
narratives are to this day related by the itinerant 
story tellers of Arabia, to the groupes that assemble 
round them at the coffee-houses, and other places 


170 


THE VIOLET. 


of public resort; the audience always listening 
with intense interest, and rewarding the narrator 
with a contribution in money, whenever he ceases. 
Monsieur Galland translated these tales from the 
Arabic into French, and the English version was 
made from his.” 

“Yes, father,” replied Harry, looking tired. “I 
have no doubt of their all being very good stories; 
and, I dare say, they are entertaining enough to 
people that are fond of reading — but for my 
part ” 

“ Harry,” said his father, interrupting him, and 
pointing out the tale of the ‘ Forty Thieves,’ — “I 
will only ask you to try this one as a specimen ; 
and I am sure when you have finished it you will 
gladly read them all.” 

Harry took the volume ; and, while his father 
was engaged with some letters he had just received, 
and his mother was preparing to pour out the coffee; 
while Lucy sat on a low stool, and played with 
her doll, and George took his hat, and strutted 
about the room, flourishing his new cane, and sur- 
veying himself in the glass — the reluctant reader 
established himself on the window seat ; where he 


171 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 

reclined with one eye on the page, and the other 
on the street, — after having settled his position 
with considerable difficulty, as is always the case 
with persons to whom books are irksome. 

Before he had time to get interested in the story, 
his attention was attracted by a sudden noise ; and, 
looking out, he perceived that some boys, who were 
playing in the square before the house, had just 
completed a gigantic figure of snow, and were 
huzzaing in consequence. 

“ The snow-man has no hat,” exclaimed Harry ; 
“ I’ll just run out, and show them how to make him 
one.” He flew from the parlour with the book in 
his hand, and, throwing it hastily on the hall-table, 
he was out of doors in an instant, and busily en- 
gaged the next moment in assisting the boys. 

His father looked after him, and sighed. — “ My 
dear,” he said to Mrs. Clarke, “ we have always 
been too indulgent to Harry. He knows that a 
mere reproof is the only punishment he need expect, 
whatever may be his misdemeanors.” 

“His misdemeanors,” said the doating mother, 

“ are only such as in time will correct themselves. 
Though I confess that he is impetuous and giddy, 


172 


THE VIOLET. 


and that as yet he shows no fondness for any thing 
that resembles study, yet I hope much from the 
excellence of his capacity, the goodness of his 
heart, and the generosity and kindness of his 
feelings.” 

“ What surprises me most in Harry,” said 
George Ellis, “ and it is certainly his worst fault, is 
that he has no notion of his own dignity — no idea 
of keeping up his consequence : and when 1 talk to 
him on the subject, he only laughs, and says, ‘ that 
it is too much trouble for him to be always acting 
the gentleman.’ And once he actually told me that 
he hated dignity, and hated consequence, and that 
he had none to support. I reminded him, of course, 
of his father’s ships, and his mother’s jewels, and 
of the fine house that lie lives in, and of the 
elegant clothes that he could have for asking 
(though I do not believe he ever does ask for any). 
It’s surprising how little he values these things. 
Why, one day, when he was playing in the 
common, he took the plume out of his new cocked- 
hat and divided it among the boys to feather their 
arrows.” 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS, 


173 


“ Come, George,” said Mr. Clarke, interrupting 
this tirade, “ breakfast is now quite ready.” 

“ And really,” pursued George, (as he seated 
himself carefully at the table, and spread out his 
skirts so that they could not be rumpled,) “it is 
absolutely amazing that Harry Clarke will play 
with any boy whatever, and that (instead of walking 
slowly up and down the Mall, as a young gentleman 
of family and fortune ought to do, or seating him- 
self on his spread pocket-handkerchief, and reclining 
gracefully against the great elm,) the moment he 
gets on the Common, he scampers off towards the 
Mill-dam, where all the town boys resort — and he 
joins, that very instant, in their boisterous plays. — 
Wool-hats and fustian-jackets make no sort of 
difference with him. I do not believe he ever gives 
a thought to their style of dress. All he cares for 
is, that they should be what he calls good fellows, 
and that they should play well.” 

“We must hope that he may grow wiser in time,” 
said Mr. Clarke smiling. 

“ He does not scruple to overlook, and indeed to 
overset young gentlemen of decided elegance,” 


174 


THE VIOLET. 


continued George, glancing his eye over his own 
suit of blue velvet laced with gold. 

He was stopped short in his animadversions by 
the return of Harry, who came back in such a glow 
of exhilaration, and gave so animated a description 
of the improvements he had made in the snow-man, 
that his fond parents had not the heart to check his 
vivacity. 

They had nearly finished breakfast, when a knock 
was heard at the front-door — and John, the servant- 
man, brought in a paper of verses, and announced 
that the news-carrier had come for his New-Year’s 
gift. Mr. Clarke felt in his pocket and found that 
he had no change about him, and Mrs. Clarke had 
left her purse up-stairs. — “ Tell the boy to come in 
and warm himself,” said she, “ and desire Sally to 
bring me down my purse.” 

The man delivered the message to the newspaper- 
boy ; but they heard him reply that he would rather 
stay in the hall. 

“ Why, ’tis my friend Ben Franklin,” exclaimed 
Harry ; “ I see he has taken up the volume of the 
Arabian Nights that I left on the Hall-table ; and 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 175 

while he has a book in his hand he will feel no cold. 
But I will go and pull him in.” 

Suiting the action to the word, Harry immediately 
hauled in the reluctant printer-boy, who at first 
showed a disposition to resent the unceremonious 
kindness of young Clarke, but his attention being 
attracted by the paintings that ornamented the 
wainscot, he allowed himself to be conveyed into 
the parlour, where his eyes wandered with delight 
round the pictures, but rested not a moment on the 
splendid furniture, and the rich table equipage. 

“Is not that what is called a printer’s devil 1” 
said George Ellis, edging his chair as far as possible 
from the boy. 

“ Oh ! brother, brother,” exclaimed little Lucy, 
“ what naughty words you are saying ! I am sure 
he is not at all black now, and his hands and face 
are very clean.” 

Mr. Clarke took up the New-Year’s Address, 
which was printed on a small narrow slip of paper, 
with a rude wood-cut at the top, representing a! 
postman blowing his horn. “These verses are 
really not bad,” said he ; “I should like to know 
who is the author.” 


176 


THE VIOLET. 


“ There he stands,” cried Harry ; “ this is he, 
I am sure that Ben Franklin wrote them (clapping 
him on the shoulder). Why, the boys all know that 
Ben can make -verses.” 

“ Harry,” said Mr. Clarke, “ hand him this basket 
of cake.” 

Young Franklin bashfully declined the cake ; 
but Harry seized him, and forced a large piece into 
each pocket. 

“ I suppose, boy,” said George, “ you never had 
an opportunity of tasting plum-cake before, and I 
dare say you have had but a scanty breakfast.” 

The young printer coloured. “ I breakfasted this 
morning at my father’s house.” 

“ Well, and what of thatl” resumed George. 

“ My father,” answered the boy, “ is a plain 
mechanic, and he lives as such people ought. — 
Nevertheless, though our food is simple, it has 
never yet been scanty, and we all this morning had 
as much as we could eat, and so we have always.” 

“ Indeed 1” said George, with a sneer, “ and pray 
tell us what this same abundant breakfast might 
consist ofl Beans and homminy, I suppose.” 

Upon this, Harry cast a menacing look at George, 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 177 

and doubled his fist ; but, at a glance from his 
mother, he opened it again, saying, “ I forgot he 
was a visiter.” 

“ To a boy of your mind and feelings,” said Mr. 
Clarke, addressing the young printer, “ it must be 
very irksome to go about soliciting New-Year’s 
Gifts.” 

“ I do not solicit,” replied Franklin ; “ I never 
ask twice. It is almost the only means I have of 
obtaining ” He stopped, and remained silent. 

The maid, Sally, then entered with Mrs. Clarke’s 
purse, for which, she said, she had had a long 
search, it not having been left in the usual place. 
Mrs. Clarke took out a five shilling piece, called in 
English coinage a crown, and offered it to Franklin. 
The boy advanced to take it, and thanked the lady 
in a few words. 

“ W ell,” said George, “ for a person that is not 
poor enough to consider plum-cake any object, you 
seem very glad to get that crown. I suppose, 
you prefer buying your own cakes.” 

Harry again clenched his fist at George, and was 
again restrained by Mrs. Clarke. 

“ Harry Clarke,” said Franklin, “I should like 
12 


178 


THE VIOLET. 


to speak with you a moment in the hall — that is if 
the lady will give permission.” 

He bowed to Mr. and Mrs. Clarke in a manner 
that set George tittering, and went out, accompanied 
with alacrity by Harry. — George got up, and was 
following to hear what they were going to say, but 
Harry shut the door in his face. 

“ Harry,” said Franklin, “ I will acknowledge to 
you, that (after I have bought a present for my 
mother) all the money I shall collect as New-Year’s 
Gifts, will be devoted to the purchase of books. 1 
heard you regretting the other day, that you had 
spent all your weekly allowance at once, and that 
you would have no more until next Monday, though 
you were very desirous of buying a humming-top 
that we saw at the toy-shop. Now I will make a 
bargain with you. I’ll give you this silver crown 
which your mother has just presented to me, if you 
will lend me — observe, I only say lend — if you 
will lend me these books of the Arabian tales, and 
allow me to have the reading of them, and let me 
take this volume home with me.” 

“ As to the books,” replied Harry, “ if they were 
not a New-Year’s gift from my father, I would not 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 179 

hesitate an instant to make you a present of them. 
But as to the crown-piece, I shall not take it. I 
can easily wait till Monday for the humming-top ; 
or, indeed, if I was to coax my father a little, I 
dare say he would give me the money at once. 
Only I don’t like to take advantage of his kindness ; 
and the last time I asked him for my allowance in 
advance, I promised that I would never again make 
such a request. The truth is, I do spend too much 
money, and my father is right in trying to check 
my profuseness. However, you are quite welcome 
to the books, and I am sorry that I have never 
offered to lend you any. But it is too true, that 
somehow books are things that seldom come into 
my head. Why did not you ask me 1” 

“ Because,” said Franklin, “ though you do play 
with me on the Common and at Valley Acre, and 
are sociable and friendly enough, yet I remember 
always what I have heard my father say, that when 
common people happen to have any intercourse, with 
great people, they had better avoid encroaching 
too much, lest they should be considered forward 
and obtrusive, and meet with a mortifying repulse. 
I have also heard him remark, that most great 


180 


THE VIOLET. 


people (kings in particular) are like cats, and though 
they purr round you one minute, they may scratch 
you the next.” 

“ But I am not the least of a cat,” said Harry. 
“ To be sure I am often inclined to fly at that 
sickening fellow George Ellis ; and if he had not 
been a visiter, I should have settled him long 
ago.” 

“Well,” said Franklin, “I shall be very glad 
indeed to give this crown-piece for the reading of 
the Arabian Nights. I know no one else that has 
the book, and I find it mentioned in the Spectator, 
in a manner which convinces me that it is delight- 
ful. As this is a holiday, I shall have time to read 
— and, besides, I can easily sit up all night. I 
often do so when I borrow a book that must be 
returned immediately. You may be sure I will 
take great care of it, and bring this volume back 
to you to-morrow. So here is the money, and now 
you can go and buy the humming-top.” 

“ Indeed I shall do no such thing as take that 
money,” replied Harry. “ Why, Ben, you do not 
scruple to borrow books of Dick Jackson, and Ned 
Jones, and Tom Smith.” 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 


181 


“ No,” answered Franklin, “ because they are 
boys of my own class, and I lend them my books 
in return ; for, like myself, they have but few. 
But the sons of rich men have books enough of 
their own, and do not want to borrow from people 
in my station. I would not much hesitate to accept 
favours from grown gentlemen ; but I do not like to 
be under obligations to boys that are above me.” 

“Well, Ben,” said Harry, “you are a strange 
fellow. But I know that lately you have been very 
full of independence and heroism, and all such 
things, from having read a good deal about the 
Greeks and Romans. You shall have both volumes 
note, for I am in no hurry to read them, and would 
rather defer it till I feel more in the humour, if 
that should ever be.” 

Harry then ran into the parlour, and instantly 
flew back again with the other volume. 

“ You must take this crown,” said Franklin, “ or 
I will not take the books.” 

Harry paused a moment, and then took the 
crown — resolved in his own mind to make Franklin 
resume it when he returned the books. 


182 


THE VIOLET. 


“ And now,” said Franklin, — “ say that you 
don’t think me an object of charity.” 

“ I don’t indeed,” replied Harry, smiling 1 , and 
shaking him by the hand ; “ I see you are thinking 
of George Ellis’s impertinence; but never mind — 
sensible boys need not care a farthing for the 
insolence of fools.” 

Franklin now took his leave, and Harry returned 
to the parlour. On being asked by his mother why 
he remained so long in the hall talking to the 
newspaper boy, he replied that he had been lending 
him the Arabian Nights, as he knew poor Ben 
would take more pleasure in reading them than he 
himself should. 

“ I am sorry,” said Mr. Clarke, “ that you are 
in so little haste to avail yourself of my New-Year’s 
gift.” 

“ Indeed, father,” replied Harry, “ I cannot 
dissemble, and pretend to like books better than I 
really do. It would take me two or three months 
to get through those volumes ; and I have no doubt 
of Ben Franklin’s devouring every line of them in 
less than three days, and faithfully performing his 
task in his brother’s printing-office besides.” 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 183 

“Now tell me exactly who this Ben Franklin is,” 
said Mr. Clarke, “ and how you became acquainted 
with him.” 

“Why,” replied Harry — “he is the youngest 
son of old Joshua Franklin, the tallow-chandler and 
soap-boiler — George, you need not turn up your 
nose. It was at first intended that he should be 
brought up to his father’s trade, and he was for a 
while employed in cutting wicks and filling candle 
moulds — but very naturally disliking such jobs, he 
is now with his brother, James Franklin, learning 
the printing business. I first met with him on the 
Common among the boys who go there to play ; 
and also on the cricket-ground at Valley Acre. 
He is the very best player I ever saw ; nothing 
comes amiss to him, and he has taught us many 
new diversions, some of them his own invention. 
He is also very ingenious in making things in wood 
and metal, and he has even some knowledge of 
drawing. — But, after all, his chief delight is in 
books ; when he gets a new one, we see nothing of 
him on the play-ground till he has read it. He 
always tries to become acquainted with boys who 
have books ; and it is much to his credit that he 


184 


THE VIOLET. 


takes excellent care of all he borrows, and that 
he punctually returns them.” 

“Persons who are fond of reading are always 
careful of books,” observed Mr. Clarke ; “ but how 
is it that you have never before lent him any of 
yours 1” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Harry ; “ I often thought 
of offering to do so — but then I always forgot it 
again. I am sorry for my remissness, for I recollect 
hearing several weeks ago, that he had exhausted 
the stock of every body he knew — and I suppose 
that latterly he has been at a loss for something to 
read, as he has frequented the play-ground more 
than usual. Sometimes when he gets to discussing 
books with John Collins and others of the reading 
boys, he forgets to play, and you would be sur- 
prised to hear how sensibly he talks. Altogether 
Ben Franklin is the best fellow I know.” 

“ Poor boy,” said Mr. Clarke, “ how hard he tries 
to acquire knowledge ! And you (who besides 
having free access to my library,) have books lavished 
on you almost without number, cannot be prevailed 
on to read a single one of them through. Mark 
my words : I prophesy that this Benjamin Franklin 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 


185 


will eventually become a great man, and that his 
name will be an honour to his country, and to the 
world, when yours is forgotten.” 

We will now proceed with Franklin, who almost 
fancied himself in paradise when he walked off 
with the Arabian Tales under hi? arm ; and as it 
was a holiday, he felt strongly inclined to relinquish 
all further pursuit of New-Year’s Gifts, and to 
shut himself up for the remainder of the day with 
his new acquisition. But he thought of the happi- 
ness of being able to procure some other books with 
the money he might collect, and he had a great 
desire to possess a complete set of the Spectator, of 
which, as yet, he had only been able to obtain the 
reading of one or two odd volumes. Inspired by 
this hope, he pursued his rounds with increased 
alacrity of step. 

After calling at several other houses, he came to 
the residence of Mr. Inflict Bangs; a schoolmaster, 
who once, for a short time, had numbered Franklin 
among bis pupils, and who was now preparing him- 
self for the ministry, with a full disposition to carry 
into that holy profession all the gloomy austerity 
and unjustifiable rigour which had characterised his 


186 


THE VIOLET. 


rule as an instructor of youth. He was a yellowish, 
bitter-faced man, with a harsh, croaking voice : and 
though thin and bony, he had prodigious strength 
of arm, of which the majority of his scholars had 
daily experience; particularly those who were 
deficient, not in application to their books, but in 
rich relations. 

Mr. Bangs was seated at his desk when young 
Franklin was ushered into his study — a little front 
room on one side of the street door. — “ Come in, 
boy,” said he, without looking up, “ and wait till I 
have finished this page.” Franklin went to the 
window, and turning his face towards it, he opened 
a volume of the Arabian Nights, and began to read ; 
being unwilling to lose time while waiting. 

When Mr. Bangs had completed his page, he 
looked over the New-Year’s Ode which Franklin 
had laid on his desk, and contracting his brows to 
more than their usual frown, he pronounced it 
“ wretched stuff,” and inquired what vain fool had 
written it. He asked this question twice before he 
was heard by Franklin, who stood at the window 
absorbed in his book. 

“ Boy,” said Bangs, turning sternly round, 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 187 

“ what is it takes your attention! Let me see the 
book that has made you forget in whose presence 
you stand. It is well for you that you are not still 
my pupil, — though wholesome chastisement can 
never come amiss. I tell you to give me the book.” 

Franklin approached, and reluctantly presented 
the volume. Mr. Bangs took it, looked through 
it; and groaned. “Great,” he exclaimed, “is 
the abomination of the times, particularly in this 
degenerate town. Every day I meet with some- 
thing to assure me that a terrible punishment is 
hanging over Boston. Boy, I have heard of this 
wicked book, but hoped that it had not found its 
way across the ocean. It is filled with genii and 
magic — with strange transformations, and with 
palaces of gold and diamonds.” 

“ Then I am sure it must be very entertaining,” 
observed Franklin. 

“Answer me not in that tone,” resumed Bangs, 
“ but give me the other volume,” taking it from 
under Franklin’s arm ; and before the amazed boy 
could rescue them from his grasp, he had thrown 
both the books into the fire, and they were in a 
moment consumed in the blaze. 


188 


THE VIOLET. 


“ There let them barn,” said the relentless bigot, 
“ as I hope their heathen authors are now burning 
in another world. Entertaining, forsooth ! what 
right have people to read for entertainment! If 
they fulfil their duties properly, there will be no 
time for recreation. Are not all books of fiction 
made up of lies! and what good man can endure a 
lie in any shape whatever !” 

Poor Franklin stood swelling with grief for the 
loss of the books, and resentment at their destroyer ; 
and it was with great difficulty he restrained himself 
from attempting immediate vengeance on the person 
of Bangs, who waved his hand pompously towards 
the door, and said, “ Now, boy, depart in peace : 
I have given you a wholesome lesson, to remember 
as long as you live. Thank me as you ought.” 

“ Thank you !” exclaimed Franklin, almost 
choking with vexation, — “thank you for what! 
I’ll die before I’ll thank you ! To say nothing of 
your depriving me of the pleasure of reading these 
books, which I had set my heart on, you have 
shamefully destroyed what was not my own pro- 
perty, and which I know not how to replace. The 
books were lent to me by Harry Clarke, and only 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 


189 


this morning they were given to him by his 
father.” 

“ What, the rich Mr. Clarke of North Square !” 
said Bangs in a voice of dismay ; “ boy, why did 
not you tell me this at first 1 Mr. Clarke is a man 
of standing and influence.” 

Franklin, still trembling with suppressed emo- 
tion, now opened the door to go out, when Mr. 
Bangs called him back and said to him, in a voice 
he intended for a mild one, but which was only 
more nasal than ordinary — “ My young friend, 
Benny Franklin, there is no need of your mention- 
ing this small error into which 1 have been strangely 
betrayed. It is better that you should keep it to 
yourself : I perceive not the least necessity for your 
repeating the circumstance.” 

“ But there is,” replied Franklin ; “ how else 
shall I account to Harry Clarke for the loss of his 
Arabian Nights'! I have been borrowing books 
ever since I was five years old, and never before 
has any thing happened to a single one of them 
while in my possession.” 

“ Benny,” said Mr. Bangs, “ there are many just 
and good men who have not thought it sinful to 


190 


THE VIOLET. 


stretch a point when the end justified the means. 
There is authority for such divergements from the 
straight path. You may represent that the books 
fell accidentally into the fire; and my name need 
not appear in the statement.” 

“ What,” exclaimed Franklin, “ and incur for 
myself the blame of the very worst sort of careless- 
ness 1” 

“ I am not sure, after all,” pursued Bangs, “ that 
the misadventure was not purely accidental; it 
seems to me that the books fell by chance from my 
hand, and unluckily just where the flames hap- 
pened to catch them.” 

“ They did not ! they did not !” cried Franklin ; 
“ I saw you put them into the fire in the very place 
where the blaze was fiercest. You know you did 
it on purpose.” 

“ You are a shrewd, ingenious boy,” continued 
Bangs, laying his hand on the head of Franklin, 
who instantly drew it away in disgust, “ and you 
can find no difficulty in giving a convenient state- 
ment of the passage that has taken place in relation 
to these books ; and Benny hold out your hand, — 
here are a half-a-dozen shillings for your New- 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS* 191 

Year’s gift, if you will act in this thing according 
to my desire.” 

This was too much for Franklin’s patience ; and 
scattering the shillings indignantly on the floor, he 
darted out of the house. 

Though endowed with much natural strength of 
mind, and possessed of intelligence far beyond his 
years, poor Franklin was still but a hoy ; and as 
soon as he got into the street he leaned his forehead 
against a post, and cried as if his heart was break- 
ing. 

But he soon rallied ; and drying his tears, he 
made a determination to appropriate nearly all his 
money to buying another equally handsome set of 
the Arabian Nights, to replace that of Harry 
Clarke. 

He proceeded on his tour, and omitted not a 
single house in which his brother’s newspaper was 
taken. But in those days seldom more than a few 
pence was given by each family to the carrier: he 
knew the general price of books, and he found all 
that he was able to collect insufficient to purchase 
so expensive a one, after he had deducted the cost 
of an India silk pocket-handkerchief for his mother. 


192 


THE VIOLET. 


And the only pleasant feeling he had during the 
remainder of the day, was when he laid this little 
present on the lap of his kind parent, and when she 
kissed him in return, and called him her good Ben, 
and said she had been wanting such a handkerchief 
for years. 

Still, he determined not to allow himself to be. 
tempted to lay out another farthing of his money ; 
but to keep it inviolate, in the firm hope (and young 
people are always sanguine,) that some unforseen 
event would put him in possession of a sufficiency 
to make out the desired sum. 

Franklin had hitherto been only on trial in the 
printing-office, and had continued to live at his 
father’s ; but after this day he was to enter into a 
regular apprenticeship with his brother James, and 
was to board with him and his other boys at a house 
in the immediate neighbourhood of the establish- 
ment. He was now kept very close at work, and 
his brother (who never showed him any kindness 
after he had him entirely in his power,) generally 
found something for him to do beyond the regular 
working hours : and as the days were short, and 
the weather very bad, he was no longer able to 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 193 

play on the Common. He passed a dreary week ; 
and, to add to his discomfort, he had no book to 
read. 

He was very desirous of seeing Harry Clarke 
again, yet he had not courage to knock at the door 
and inquire for him. But every day when he went 
to leave the newspaper, he lingered about for a 
minute or two, hoping to obtain a glimpse of him, 
and to have an opportunity of making an expla- 
nation. 

At last, in a lucky moment, after leaving the 
paper under the knocker, he perceived Harry at 
the parlour-window, and his warm-hearted friend 
immediately ran out to bring him in. — Franklin, 
however, would proceed no farther than the entry, 
(the place that boys generally prefer for their con- 
fabulations,) and George Ellis came down stairs at 
the same moment, having just been changing his 
dress after sitting for his portrait. Mrs. Clarke 
was only desirous of possessing a likeness of her 
little favourite Lucy; but she had concluded to 
have both the children painted together, rather than 
run the risk of offending their mother, who had 
13 


194 


THE VIOLET. 


always made a pet of George in preference to his 
sister, and had completely spoiled him. 

“ Well, my friend Ben,” said Harry, shaking 
him heartily by the hand, “ I have not seen you for 
a week, but I suppose you have been lost in the 
Arabian Nights. You need not hurry yourself to 
return the book for a month or two yet, as I shall 
not have a moment’s time to read it. The weather 
has now cleared up, my mother has consented to 
my getting a pair of skates, and I have a great deal 
before me : as much skating, and snow-balling, and 
sliding, as I can possibly do.” 

Franklin, then, in much confusion, explained 
the fate of the book precisely as it had happened. 

Loud and high was the indignation of Harry 
against Inflict Bangs — not exactly for burning the 
book, but for burning it before Franklin had read 
it. But George Ellis, who stood listening at the 
bottom of the stairs, called out, “Why, Harry, 
can you believe this fine story 1 don’t you see, that 
after this chap had read your book, he went and 
sold it to buy others with the money 1” 

At these words Franklin instantly sprung forward 
and caught George by his lace collar, exclaiming, 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 195 

“Beg my pardon this moment, and go down on 
your knees and own yourself a liar, or I’ll shake 
you till you do.” 

“ Now Ben, go off,” said Harry ; “ George Ellis 
is my property. Leave him to me, and I’ll pay him 
for all at once. But go off, I tell you, or I can’t 
touch him ; for two to one won't do.” 

“ No, no,” answered Franklin, “ I am well able 
to fight my own battles.” And he shook George 
Ellis till his cries brought Mr. Clarke out of the 
library ; and in another minute the whole household 
had assembled in the hall. 

The boys were immediately parted by Mr. Clarke, 
and Harry eagerly recounted the whole story to his 
father. Mr. Clarke was much incensed at what 
had been said and done by Inflict Bangs, and de- 
clared that he could well believe it, as it was in 
conformity with much that he had heard of him. 
And he reprimanded George severely for the insult 
he had offered to the integrity of Franklin. 

“ Well,” said George, sulkily, “ my father and 
mother will be in town again in a few days, and 
they will take me home. lain sure I shall be glad 
of it, for I have no desire to be abused any farther 


196 


THE VIOLET. 


by Harry on account of his ragamuffin printer- 
boy.” 

“ I am no ragamuffin,” said Franklin ; “ for my 
mother always keeps my every day-clothes well 
mended, and I have a good suit for Sunday. I 
know I have a patch on each knee, but nothing 
like a rag.” 

“ And now, Ben,” said Harry, going close to him 
and speaking in a low voice, “ I must give you back 
your crown-piece.” 

Franklin changed colour, snatched up his bundle 
of newspapers, and immediately ran off, saying, “ I 
have stayed too long — I must make haste with my 
papers.” 

That evening a servant of Mr. Clarke’s came to 
the printing-office with a billet inscribed, “ For 
Benjamin Franklin.” It was from Harry, and 
enclosed the said crown, accompanied by the fol- 
lowing words : 

“ Dear Ben, — No more heroics — they don’t 
suit people of sense, therefore they don’t suit you. 
Listen now to plain, sober, quiet reason. You 
must and shall take the crown-piece. If you return 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 197 

it, I’ll throw it immediately into the street, and 
never speak to you again while I live on earth. 

“I’ve bought the great humming-top, having 
received my week’s allowance on Monday. It 
hums so loudly that you may hear it half over the 
North End. 

“ Yours till death, 

“ (for of course you’ll keep the crown,) 

“H. C.” 

Franklin pondered a few minutes, and at last 
Wisely concluded to put up the crown-piece with 
the rest of his money. And he felt happy once 
more ; for he found that he had now enough to buy 
the Arabian Nights. The day after New-Year’s 
he had priced in a book store a set similar to 
Harry’s, (except that the binding though equally 
handsome, was green instead of red,) and which 
they told him was the only copy in town. 

Next morning he bought the book, and had six- 
pence left. I need not say with what avidity he 
snatched every leisure moment, and how late he 
sate up at night, till he had gone through the 
volumes, so fascinating to all young people when 


198 


THE VIOLET. 


they read them the first time. When he had finish- 
ed, he tied them up in a paper cover, which he 
inscribed, “ For Master Henry Clarke, from 
Benjamin Franklin;” and carrying the parcel to 
the house, he gave it in charge of John, and went 
away immediately. On the following day Mr. 
Clarke sent Franklin, as a present, a complete set 
of the Spectator handsomely bound, and also a kind 
note, offering to lend him from his library any 
books that he had a desire to read, and urging him 
to apply for them without scruple. And Harry 
added a line, saying, “ You know you shall always 
be welcome to any of mine.” 

Franklin was as glad as if he had met with a 
mine of gold. He was now in a fair way of obtaining 
as many books as he could find time to read. Other 
gentlemen took notice of him, and extended to 
him the same kindness. And he was occasionally 
enabled to buy a book which it was desirable to 
read more than once, or to consult frequently. 

The intense interest in books that was always 
evinced by this poor boy, and his earnest efforts to 
procure them, made eventually a deep impression 
on Harry Clarke. He began to think that there 


THE NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS. 199 

really must be something delightful in reading, and 
he made a resolution to try it seriously, and 
to persevere in it if possible. In a short time he 
conquered his repugnance so far as to find great 
pleasure in story books and other works of imagi- 
nation ; and after a while (we must confess it was 
a long while,) he came to take equal interest in 
literature of a higher class. The improvement of 
his mind was of course rapid and obvious, and 
caused much happiness to his fond parents. Still 
he liked to play on the Common. 

The death of George Ellis’s injudicious mother, 
and his father’s subsequent marriage with a sensible 
and amiable woman, wrought so great a change for 
the better in the young fopling, that in process of 
time he gradually got rid of his impertinence, his 
arrogance, and even of his vanity, and he grew up 
a very respectable member of society. 

The leading events of the life of Dr. Franklin 
are, or ought to be, known to most of my young 
readers. To those who are yet unacquainted with 
the history of that truly great man, I earnestly 
recommend a little book (first published in Boston, 
in 1825 ,) containing his life as written by himself 


200 


THE VIOLET. 


up to the period of his marriage, and afterwards 
continued by one of his intimate friends ; and com- 
prising also an entertaining and instructive selection 
of his miscellaneous essays. 

To return to our story : after Franklin had left 
Boston at the age of sixteen to seek his fortune in 
another city, the Clarke family lost sight of him 
for many years. But he went on and prospered ; 
and they derived much satisfaction from the evi- 
dence of his celebrity that gradually extended over 
every part of America. In after life Harry Clarke 
visited Europe ; and was at Versailles when his old 
friend Benjamin Franklin (once the poor printer, 
and now the distinguished philosopher and highly 
trusted diplomatist,) was presented to the King and 
Queen of France, and honoured by the wisest and 
courted by the noblest of the land. 


THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN 


201 


THE 


© C? F B A KI K Qa Q Kl 0 * 


No chisell’d urn is rear’d to thee, 

No sculptur’d scroll unrolls its page 
To tell the children of the free 
Where rests the patriot and the sage. 

Far in that city of the dead, 

A corner holds thy sacred clay; 

And pilgrim feet, by reverence led, 

Have worn a path that marks the way. 


* Franklin lies interred in the northwest corner of 
Christ Church Cemetry — Fifth and Arch street — Phila- 
delphia. 


202 


THE VIOLET. 


There, round thy lone and simple grave, 
Encroaching on its marble gray, 

Wild plaintain weeds and tall grass wave, 
And sun-beams pour their shadeless ray. 

Level with earth thy letter’d stone — 

And hidden oft by winter’s snow — 

Its modest record tells alone 
Whose dust it is that sleeps below. 

That name’s enough — that honour’d name 
No aid from eulogy requires — 

’Tis blended with thy country’s fame; 

And flashes round her lightning spires. 


c. II. w. 


















































✓ 



jwmm. 


G H. Cushman 





&*£fi 


m, 

nn? 




mm 

! 

:r 

m 

■!; 

-•- 



















Lauretta’s fawn. 


203 


(L A dfl @ g ‘D’ 7 A 3 © FAW7M«. 


BY MISS LESLIE. 


Little Lauretta had a pet fawn that had 
been brought to her as a present on her last birth- 
day, by an old hunter that lived in the depth of 
the forest about ten miles from her father’s resi- 
dence, and was in the practice of supplying the 
family with venison. 

The place in which Lauretta kept her fawn was 
a shady and retired spot, just beyond the lawn, 
and at the entrance of a small piece of woodland. 
It was called the Glade, and was beautiful and 
picturesque beyond description. The hand of 
nature had fenced it round with moss-covered 
rocks, between which there was only one passage, 


204 


THE VIOLET. 


and that very narrow and intricate — tall trees 
and flowering-shrubs grew out from the scanty 
earth that filled up the crevices of these wild 
masses of stone, in one of which was a little 
cavity, the sleeping place of the fawn ; and under 
the shadow of another piece of rock, a spring of 
clear cold water welled up perpetually, and formed 
a little brooklet which ran rippling among the 
bushes. 

The Glade was the favourite retreat of Lauretta, 
when her lessons were over; and being a very 
patriotic little girl, she was most happy at being 
permitted in fine weather to have the remains of 
an old revolutionary flag (that had been in the 
family since her grandfather had served in the war 
of Independence,) affixed to the trees at the only 
place which admitted the sun-beams in their full 
effulgence ; though it must be confessed that her 
pet in his gambols frequently pulled down this 
interesting curtain. Here, seated on a rustic 
bench, she would sew at her doll’s clothes, or read 
her story-books; much interrupted, however, by 
the frequent necessity of looking at, and caressing 
her beloved fawn. 


Lauretta’s fawn. 


205 


It was the morning of the fourth of July, when 
Lauretta, in addition to his usual luncheon of fruit 
and milk, brought him some sweet cakes, by way 
of a holiday treat ; and though he at first drew 
back as not knowing what to make of food so novel 
to a wild native of the forest, he very soon relished 
them extremely. She had filled her frock-skirt 
with flowers from her own little garden, to decorate 
his young horns, which were still encased in their 
velvet-like covering ; and she graced with a new 
blue ribbon the bell suspended at his neck. Also, 
Lauretta had brought the cat (her other, but very 
secondary pet,) to see her darling fawn ; and she 
was disappointed to find that the two animals could 
not be induced to notice each other. 

Having fed and adorned the young deer, 
Lauretta put in practice a plan which she had 
devised of taking him up to the house, by way of 
adding to his happiness and hers on the glorious 
fourth of July. She easily enticed him beyond 
the limits of the Glade, by holding out her hand 
for him to lick as he followed her ; for to lick the 
hand of his little mistress was a pleasure of which 
he never seemed to tire. In this manner she led 


20G 


THE VIOLET. 


him across the lawn, and introduced him into the 
chief parlour by one of its glass-doors. There 
happened at the time to be no person in the room, 
and Lauretta was going to apprise the family of 
their new visiter, when after gazing round for a 
few moments in amazement, he sprung over his 
mistress’s head, and began bounding over the 
chairs and tables, with such leaps as he would have 
taken in his native forest. Having pulled down 
and broken to pieces a vase of exotics, scattering 
about the floor all the other ornaments of the 
centre-table, he devoured the fallen flowers in a 
moment, and then jumped on an ottoman in one of 
the recesses to reach another flower-vase that stood 
at the end of the mantel-piece. The noise that he 
made, and the exclamations of Lauretta (who 
thought he would demolish every thing, — ’ herself 
included,) soon brought the whole family to the 
parlour, where they found the fawn rearing with 
his fore-feet on the open piano, as he tried in vain 
to clamber on its polished surface, and pricking 
up his ears, and looking amazed and frightened at 
the sounds his pa wings involuntarily drew from the 
keys of the instrument. There were various 


Lauretta’s fawn. 


207 


attempts to catch him by the collar, but he eluded 
all, and bounded out of another door that opened 
into the flower-garden. Here, while engaged in 
rapidly eating off all the roses from the most beau- 
tiful bush, he was secured by one of the men- 
servants and led back to the Glade. 

“Oh!” said Lauretta; “I am very sorry that 
my dear fawn has behaved in this outrageous 
manner — I thought it would be so delightful to 
have him in the parlour, as familiar as poor puss.” 

“ My dear little girl,” said her father — “ the 
house is no place for so wild and active an animal. 
So let him in future remain in the Glade. When 
you become acquainted with the world, you will 
find that there are many human beings who, when 
removed from their proper stations, and their usual 
habits, will play more fantastic tricks and do still 
more mischief than a fawn in the parlour.” 


208 


THE VIOLET. 


THE 


d go ® a a n © a b (La 


In the heart of one of those deep palm forests of 
Peru, where the beams of the glad sun rarely 
pierce, far from his persecuted brethren, dwelt one 
of that unhappy race of Indians. He was a father ; 
five children had brightened his eye, four proud 
noble boys and one a tender girl, resembling most 
the fawn that roved wildly amid the woods, and 
she alone remained to share his solitude. Pizarro’s 
followers had winged the shafts that bore death 
into the hearts of three, and one son watched the 
bright sun rise and set from a grated, prison 
window. How did his heart yearn, that noble 
boy’s, to tread once more the green savannahs, 
and to chase yet once again the wild deer amid 


THE INDIAN GIRL. 


209 


the forests, and more, far more, to braid his sister’s 
raven hair with flowers; for it was hard, oh very hard, 
for one who had lived under the blue sky, and ever 
breathed the breath of freedom, to be fettered there. 
Alone the Indian dwelt, save with that young girl; 
the names of his children were strangers to his 
lips; but they were fixed for ever in his heart. 
Revenge, revenge, filled his whole soul ; glared in 
his eye, that had never shed a tear, save one, one 
burning drop that had rolled down his swarthy cheek 
when he heard his youngest son lay in Pizarro’s 
dungeon ; yes, then the old man wept, but it was 
in the forest solitude, where no eye, not even his 
Meloe’s, might gaze on his sorrow. He had left 
his tribe, to seek in the deep recesses of the moun- 
tains, some refuge, where he might await the long 
prayed-for moment, and drink the heart’s blood of 
those who had drank so greedily of his. It was 
only when he gazed on his young child, as she 
returned home laden with the fruits she had rifled 
from tree and bush for her father, that his knitted 
brows relaxed, and his stern features softened into 
something like a smile. She came like a ray of 
light when it pierces the storm-shrouded sky, or 
14 


210 


THE VIOLET. 


like a spirit to soothe the struggle that dwelt in 
the old man’s heart. 

Every day he went out to hunt, and when the hour 
approached for his return she trod the well known 
paths to meet him; many a time she would sit 
down by the edge of some cool spring and wash 
her weary feet, and weave garlands of the water 
lilies that trembled on the water’s bosom, and then 
the thoughts of those who had so often woven them 
for her in the sunny hours of her infancy, rushed 
across her memory, and the lone Indian girl would 
weep; but her tears fell most when she thought of 
her Orozimbo, her youngest brother, the Spaniard’s 
prisoner. “Oh my brother, my brother,” she mur- 
mured, “ thou, whose smile was bright as the rising 
sun, and gentle as the moon, who wert brave as 
the tiger, and yet tender as the fawn, whose foot 
was as the arrow in its fleetness, and whose eye 
was so keen ! they have chained thee, — they have 
torn thee from thy home, — never wilt thou smile 
again, or chase the wild deer along the gay savan- 
nah ; better would it have been for thee, if thou 
wert cold with thy brothers.” 

For two long years the Indian girl had lived in 


THE INDIAN GIRL. 


211 


the palm forest, and every day her father had gone 
forth to hunt. But once the sun had set in rosy 
clouds below the trees, and the evening shadows 
were dark and gloomy. Meloe had listened long 
and anxiously for his home-turned footsteps ; twice 
she had trod the path that led to the deep ravine, 
beyond which her father had forbidden her to go ; 
and now she sat beneath the tall tree that shaded 
their little hut, and waited, with a heavy heart, his 
coming. 

At last he came, but not alone; there was a 
stranger with him, and he was fettered; the 
stranger was a Spaniard, and very young ; Meloe’s 
heart beat fast, for she knew well that when a 
Spaniard crossed her father’s threshold, he came 
for no good. Once she gazed with a pitying eye 
on the young stranger, for his step was weary and 
his limbs were tightly bound; and her heart whis- 
pered, “ that was my brother;” and then she 
looked on her father, but his face was stern, and on 
it sat a look of triumph. 

“ Rejoice, Meloe,” he said, “ thou shalt drink of 
the white man’s blood, the hand that killed thy 


212 


THE VIOLET. 


brother shall perish. To-day the Indian shall be 
revenged.” 

But Meloe could not smile, and her heart sick- 
ened within her. The Indian led his captive into 
the hut, and placed him in a little room ; then he 
twisted the bamboo fetters round his arms and legs 
still tighter, and smiled to hear him groan. 
“ Sleep,” said he, “ for thou shalt not sleep again ; 
to-morrow the tiger shall lap thy blood !” Then 
he left him ; but ordered his child to give him food, 
lest the victim should expire before he had expe- 
rienced sufficient torment. Meloe took the cocoa 
nut full of cool milk and the tamarind to quench 
his thirst, and when she knelt down beside the 
young stranger, there was no hate in her heart. 
He murmured “ mother, mother,” and Meloe, 
who knew the words, felt the big tears on her 
cheeks. She left him, and her father bade her 
sleep; she laid herself down upon her bed, but it 
was in vain that she closed her eyes, for the image 
of the captive floated ever before them. “ And he 
has a mother in a far land,” thought she, “ and 
sisters, perhaps, who are watching for him. Alas ! 
that one so young should die. No one will weep 


THE INDIAN GIRL. 


213 


over his grave in the stranger’s land ! Could it be 
a sin to give him life 1 perchance he might save 
my brother’s. No ! he shall not die if Meloe can 
save him.” The Indian girl looked around: her 
father lay stretched upon the rushes that formed 
his couch, and was asleep; trembling, she arose 
and walked with a light step toward the room 
where the prisoner lay; she listened and heard 
his groans; she seized the tomahawk that lay 
on the floor, and entered the chamber. The Spa- 
niard raised himself up, but immediately sank 
again to the floor. “Fear not,” whispered the 
maiden. “I am an Indian, yet I will save thee, 
thou hast a mother ; for her sake Meloe will save 
thee. But speak not, move not, for my father 
sleeps.” Brightly beamed the eye of the captive, 
as she loosened his fetters ; and lightly he sprang 
up from the ground. “ Follow me,” said the Indian 
girl, and she opened a door that led into the forest; 
silently she guided his footsteps, till they came to 
the dark ravine. “Now listen, stranger,” said 
she, “had I not saved thee this night, never would 
thy mother have smiled again on her son. I had 
four brothers; three have the white man’s fire 


214 


THE VIOLET. 


killed ; but one, the youngest, pines a captive, even 
as thou — had not Meloe freed thee — in the Spa- 
niard’s dungeon; he was born in the forest, and 
was like a wild deer, — wilt thou not save him 
for Meloe’s sake.” 

“ I will, I will ; by the life thou hast given me, 
I will,” said the stranger. 

“Then speed thee; Orozimbo is the captive’s 
name; Pizarro guards him.” — As the Indian girl 
said this, she saw that the stranger’s feet were 
bleeding, and she knelt down and tied on them her 
own mocasins; the stranger kissed the hand that 
had saved him, and then plunged into the chasm 
below, and was lost in a moment to the eye of the 
young Indian. 

Alone, Meloe returned to her couch; her father 
still slept; and she hastily fastened the door that 
led into the chamber where the Spaniard had lain. 
When the morning sun rose, the Indian awoke, 
but his captive was gone. Oh, how dark grew his 
brow, when he found he was no longer there. For 
a whole day he searched the forest through; but 
saw him not, and Meloe was glad. Many a time 
the sun rose and set, but the stranger came not, 


THE INDIAN GIRL. 


215 


nor were tidings heard of Orozimbo. Meloe’s 
heart grew desolate; as a flower that has been 
crushed, she faded away, and her father bent over 
his only child in sorrow; she grew weaker and 
weaker, till at last she said, “ Father, I shall soon 
die, take me out that I may see the blue sky once 
more, and feel the breath of the summer wind on 
my hot cheek; and, father, weave me a garland of 
flowers for my hair, yet once again.” 

The Indian bore his child into the air, and laid 
her down on the grass, and then he set beside her; 
he had not watched her long, when he heard sud- 
denly a rustling amid the trees, as he raised his 
eyes from his child, and the stranger stood once 
more before them ; there was another from behind, 
a tall, dark Indian. Meloe uttered a cry, “It is he; 
it is Orozimbo, father ! it is he !” The old man 
gazed on the Indian, who had sprung to his knees, 
and once again the burning tears flowed swiftly 
down his furrowed cheek. “I have fulfilled my 
trust,” said the Spaniard. “Indian, I have saved 
thy son, wilt thou slay me? Meloe,” said he, in a 
softer voice, “I was not ungrateful. My mother 
has blessed the Indian girl.” 


216 


THE VIOLET. 


Meloe gazed once, long and fondly, on her 
brother, and then on the stranger, and said, “ Fa- 
ther, thou wilt not harm him whom thy child has 
loved.” She sighed, fell back on the grass, — and 
Meloe was no more. 

J. T. 

Philadelphia. 


THE END. 

























































* 


I 



























































































































% 

























































































